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MIRAMICHI 


SECOND EDITION. 







HiOJEHN Gr, r^iablislier, 

319 WASHIirOTON Stbebt, 

BOSTON. 

1866 . 




!/ 

Entered accordlngr to Act or CongrcM, in the year 1865, by 
A. K. LORING, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetta. 


Stereotyped and Printed hy 


J. £• Fabwsll and Coupakt, 
37 Congress Street, Boston. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

Thb Dcbois House 7 

CHARTER II. 

Mbs. McNab 

CHAPTER III. 

Mb. Kobtok 20 

CHAPTER IV. 

Micah Mummychoo 

CHAPTER V. 

Mbs. 

CHAPTER VI. 

“ John, Deab ” 49 

CHAPTER TII. 

A JOUBNET THBOUGH THB WiLDEBNESS 65 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A C3 

CHAPTER IX. 

ADi:LE Dubois 


IV 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER X. 

81 

CHAPTER XI. 

Mk. Brown 

CHAPTER XII. 

A CASE OP Conscience 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Grove 

CHAPTER XIV. 

John and Caesar 121 

CHAPTER XV. 

Travelling in New Brunswick 129 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Flower Unfolding 134 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Deer Hunt 137 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

m 

The Prosecution 160 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Lieutenant Governor 158 

CHAPTER XX. 

Mr. Lansdowne sub juts to the Inevitable 164 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Troubled Hearts 170 


CONTENTS 


V 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A Memorable Event 179 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The Separation 103 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Chateau de Bossillon .' . • . . 107 

CHAPTER XXV. 

The Last Sleep * 213 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Pompeii. 218 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Conclusion 

t 






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MIRAMICHI. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE DUBOIS HOUSE. 

“Well, verilj, I did n’t expect to find anything like 
this, in such a wild region,” said Mr. Norton, as he settled 
himself comfortably in a curiously carved, old-fashioned 
arm-chair, before the fire that blazed cheerily on the broad 
hearth of the Dubois House. “ ’Tis not a Yankee famdy 
either,” added he, mentally. “ Everytliing agreeable and 
tidy, but it looks unlike home. It is an Elim in the desert ! 
Goodly palmtrees and abundant water ! O ! why,” he 
exclaimed aloud, in an impatient tone, as if chiding him- 
self, “ should I ever distrust the goodness of the Lord?” 

The firelight, playing over his honest face, revealed eyes 
moistened with the gratitude welling up in liis heart. He 
sat a few minutes gazing at the glowing logs, and then his 
eyelids closed in the blessed calm of sleep. Weary trav- 
eller ! He has well earned repose. 

There will not be time, during his brief nap, to tell who 
and what he was, and why he had come to sojourn far a^/ay 


8 


MIRAinCHI. 


from home and friends. But let the curtain be drawn back 
for a moment, to reveal a glimpse of that strange, ques- 
tionable country over wliich he has been wandering for the 
last few months, doing hard service. 

IVIiramiclii,* a name unfamiliar, perhaps, to tliose who 
may chance to read these pages, is the designation of a 
fertile, though partially cultivated portion of the important 
province of New Brunswick, belonging to the British 
CroAvn. The name, by no means uneuphonious, is yet 
suggestive of associations far from attractive. The ]\Iira- 
michi River, which gives title to this region, has its rise 
near the centre of the provmce, and flowing eastward emp- 
ties into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, -with Chatham, a town- 
of considerable importance, located at its mouth. 

The land had originally been settled by English, Scotch, 
and L’ish, whose business consisted mostly of fishing and 
lumbering. These occupations, pursued in a wayward and 
lawless manner, had not exerted on them an elevating or 
refining influence, and the character of the people had 
degenerated from year to year. From the remoteness and 
obscurity of the country, it had become a convenient hiding- 
place for the outlaw and the criminal, and its surface was 
sprinkled over with the refuse and ofiscouring of the New 
England States and the Pro^dnce. With a few rare excep- 
tions, it was a realm of almost heathenish darkness and 
vice. Such INIr. Norton found it, when, with heart full of 
compassion and benevolence, tliirty-five years ago, he came 


* Pronounced Mir'imishee. 


mRAMICHI. 


9 


to bear the message of heavenly love and forgiveness to 
these dwellers in death shade. 

The Dubois House, where ]\Ir. Norton had found shelter 
for the night, was situated on the northern bank of the 
river, about sixty miles west from Chatham. It was a 
respectable looking, two story building, with large bams 
adjacent. Standing on a graceful bend of the broad 
stream, it commanded river views, several miles in extent, 
in two directions, with a nearer prospect around, consisting 
of reaches of tall forest, interspersed with occasional open- 
ings, made by the mde settlers. 

Being the only dwelling in the neighborhood sufficiently 
commodious for the purpose, its occupants, making a virtue 
of necessity, were in the habit of entertaining occasional 
travellers who happened to visit the region. " 

But, softly, — Mr. Norton has wakened. He was just 
beginning to dream of home and its dear delights, when a 
door-latch was lifted, and a young girl entering, began to 
make preparations for supper. She moved quickly towards 
the fire, ‘and with a pair of iron tongs, deftly raised the 
ponderous cover of the Dutch oven, hanging over the 
blaze. The wheaten rolls it contained were nearly baked, 
and emitted a fragrant and appetizing odor. 

She refitted the cover, and then opening a closet, took 
from it a lacquered Chinese tea-caddy and a silver urn, and 
proceeded to arrange the tea-table. 

Mr. Norton, observing her attentively with his keen, 
gray eyes, asked, “ How long has yom' father lived in this 
place, my child?” 


10 


’ MIHAMICm. 


The maiden paused in her employment, and glancing at 
the broad, stalwart form* and shrewd yet honest face of the 
questioner, replied, “Nearly twenty years, sir.” 

ISIr. Norton’s quick ear immediately detected in her 
words a delicate, foreign accent, quite unfamiliar to Irim. 
j^er a moment’s silence he spoke again. 

“Dubois, — that is your name, is it not? A French 
name ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, my parents are natives of France.” 

“ Ah I indeed ! ” responded IVIr. Norton, and the family 
in which he found himself was immediately invested with 
new interest in his eyes. 

“Where is your father at the present time, my dear 
child?” 

“He is away at Fredericton. He has gone to obtain 
family supplies. I hope he is not obliged to be out this 
stormy night, but I fear he is.” 

She made the sign of the cross on her breast and glanced 
upward. 

Mr. Norton observed the movement, and at the same 
time saw, what had before escaped his notice, a string- of 
glittering, black beads upon her neck, with a black cross, 
half hidden by the folds in the waist of her dress. It was 
an instant revelation to him of the faith in which she had 
been trained. He fell into a fit of musingr. 

In the mean time, Adele Dubois completed her prepara- 
tions for the tea-table, — not one of her accustomed duties, 
but one which she sometimes took a fancy to perform. 

She was sixteen years old, — tall already, and rapidly 


MIRAMICIII. 


11 


growing taller, with a figure neither large, nor slender. 
Her complexion was pure white, scarcely tinged with 
rose ; her eyes were large and brown, now shooting out a 
bright, joyous light, then veiled in dreamy shadows. A 
rich mass of dark hair was divided into braids, gracefully 
looped up around her head. Her dress was composed of a 
plain red material of wool. Her only ornaments were the 
rosary and cross on her neck. 

A mulatto girl now appeared from the adjoining kitchen 
and placed upon the table a dish of cold, shced chicken, 
boiled eggs and pickles, together with the steaming Avheat- 
en rolls from the Dutch oven. - 

Adele having put some tea in the mm, pom’ed boding 
water upon it and left tlie room. 

Retmuing in a few minutes, accompanied by her mother 
and IVIrs. McNab, they soon drew up around the tea-table. 

When seated, Mrs. Dubois and Adele made the sign of 
the cross and closed their eyes. IMrs. McNab, glancing at 
them deprecatingly for a moment, at length fixed her gaze 
on Mr. Norton. He also closed his eyes and asked a 
mute blessing upon the food. 

IVIrs. Dubois was endowed with delicate features, a soft. 
Madonna like expression of countenance, elegance of move- 
ment and a quiet, yet gracious manner. Attentive to 
those around the board, she said but little. Occasionally, 
she listened in abstracted mood to the beating storm 
without. 

Mrs. McNab, a middle-aged Scotch woman, with a 
short, square, ample form, filled up a large portion of the 


12 


mRAJVIICHI. 


side of the table she occupied. Her coarse-featured, heavy 
fiice, surrounded by a broad, muslin cap frill, that nearly 
covered her harsh yellow hair, was lighted up by a pair of 
small gray eyes, expressing a mixture of cunning and curi- 
osity. Her rubicund visage, gaudy-colored chintz dress, 
and yellow bandanna handkerchief, produced a sort of 
glarmg sun-flower effect, not mitigated by the contrast 
afforded by the other members of the group. ' 

“ Madam,” said IVIr. Norton to IMi’s. Dubois, on seeing 
her glance anxiously at the windows, as the wild, equinoc- 
tial gale caused them to clatter violently, ‘ ‘ do you fear 
that your husband is exposed to any particular danger at 
this time ? ” , 

“ No special danger. But it is a lawless country. The 
night is dark and the storm is loud. I wish he were 
safely at home,” replied the lady. 

“Your solicitude is not strange. But you may trust 
him with the Lord. Under His protection, not a hair of 
his head can be touched.” 

Before Mrs. Dubois had time to reply, IVIrs. McNab, 
looking rather fiercely at Mr. Norton, said, “ Yer dinna 
suppose, sir, if the Lord^had decreed from all eternity 
that Mr. Doobyce should be drowned, or rabbed, or mur- 
dered to-night, that om* prayin’ an’ trustin’ wad cause 
Him to revoorse His foreordained purpose? Adely,” she 
continued, “ I dinna mind if I take anither egg an’ a'trifle 
more o’ chicken an’ some pickle.” 

By no means taken aback by this pointed inquiry, ]\Ir. 
Norton replied very gently, “I believe, ma’am, in the 


MIRAlVnCHI. 


13 


power of prayer to move the Almighty throne, when it 
comes from a sincere and humble heart, and that lie will 
bestow His blessing in return.” 

“ Weel,” said ]\Irs. McNab, “ I was brought up in the 
church o’ Scotland, and dinna believe anything anent this 
new-light doctrine o’ God’s bein’ turned roun’ an’ givin’ 
wp his decrees an’ a’ that. I think it’s the ward o’ Satan,” 
and she passed her cup to be again refilled with tea. 

Adelc, who had noticed that Mrs. McNab’s observations 
had suggested new solicitudes to her mother’s mind, re- 
marked, “"What you said just now. Aunt Patty, is not 
very consoling. Whoever thought that my father would 
meet with anything worse than perhaps being drenched by 
the storm, and half eaten up with vermin in the dirty inns 
where he will have to lodge ? I do not doubt he will be 
home in good time.” 

“Yes, IMiss Adely, yes. I ken it,” said Aunt Patty, 
as she saw a firm, defiant expression gathering in the 
young girl’s countenance. “I’d a dream anent lum last 
night that makes me think he’s comin.” 

“ Hark ! ” said Adele, starting and speaking in a clear, 
ringing tone, “he has come. ^ hear liis voice on the 
lawm.” 

IMurmuring a word or two of excuse, she rose instantly 
from the table, requested Bess, the servant, to hand her 
a lantern, and arrayed herself quickly in hood and cloak. 

As she opened the door, her father was standing on the 
step, in the driving rain, supporting in his arms the form 
2 


14 


MTRAMTCHI. 


of a gentleman, who seemed to be almost in a state of 
insensibility. 

“ Make way ! make way, Adele. Here’s a ^ick man. 
Throw some blankets on the floor, and come, all hands, 
and rub him. My dear, order something warm for him 
to drink.” 

Mrs. Dubois caught a pile of bedding from a neighbor- 
ing closet and arranged it upon the floor, near the fire. 
Mr. Dubois laid the stranger down upon it. Mr. Norton 
immediately rose from the tea-table, drew off* the boots of 
the fainting man, and began to chafe his feet with his 
warin, broad hand. 

“ Put a dash of cold water on his face, child,” said he 
to Adele, “and he’ll come to, in a minute.” Adele 
obeyed. 

The stranger opened his eyes suddenly and looked 
around in astonishment upon the group. 

“ All 1 yes. I see,” he said, “I have been faint, or 
something of the kind. I believe I am not quite well.” 

He attempted to rise, but sank back, powerless. He 
turned his head sloivly towards Mr. Dubois, and said, 
“ Friend Dubois, I think I am going to be ill, and must 
trust myself to your compassion,” when immediately his 
eyes closed and his countenance assumed the paleness of 
death. 

“Don’t be down-hearted, Mr. Brown,” said Mr. Du- 
bois. “You are not used to this Miramichi staging. 
You’ll be better by and by. My dear, give me the cor- 
dial, — he needs stimulating.’ ' 


MIRAMICHI. 


15 


He took a cup of French brandy, mixed with sugar and 
boiling water, from theTiand of Mrs. Dubois, and adminis- 
tered it slowly to the exhausted man. It seemed to have 
a quieting effect, and after awhile Mr. Brown sank into a 
disturbed slumber. 

Observing this, and finding that his limbs, which had 
been cold and benumbed, were now thoroughly warmed, 
IVIr. Dubois rose from his kneeling position and turning to 
his daughter, said, “Now then, Adele, take the lantern 
and go with me to the stables. I must see for myself that 
the horses are properly cared for. They are both tired and 
famished.” 

Adele caught up the lantern, but Mr. Norton inter- 
posed. “Allow me, sir, to assist you,” he said, rising 
quickly. “ It will expose the young lady to go out in the 
storm. Let me go, sir.” 

He approached Adele to take the lantern from her hand, 
but she drew back and held it fast. 

“I don’t mind weather, sir,” she said, with a little sniff 
of contempt at the thought. “And my father usually pre- 
fers my attendance. I thank you. Will you please stay 
with the sick gentleman?” 

IVIr. Norton bowed, smiled, and reseated himself near the 
invalid. 

In the mean time, Mr. Dubois and his daughter went 
through tlie rain to the stables ; his wife replenished the tea- 
urn and began to rearrange the table. 

Mrs. McNab, during the scene that had thus unexpect- 
edly occurred, had been waddling from one part of the room 


16 


MIRAMICni. 


to the other, exclaiming, ‘ ‘ The Lord be gude to us ! ” Her 
presence, however, seemed for the time to be ignored. 

When she heard the gentle movements made by IMrs. 
Dubois among the dishes, her dream seemed suddenly to 
fade out of view. Seating herself again at tlie table, she 
diligently pursued the task of finishing her supper, yet ever 
and anon examining the prostrate form upon the floor. 

“ Pcrad venture he’s a mon fra’ the States. His claithes 
look pretty nice. As a gen’al thing them people fra’ the 
States hae plenty o’ plack in their pockets. What do you 
think, sh’ ?” 

‘ ‘ He is undoubtedly a gentleman from New England, ” 
said Norton. 


CHAPTEK n. 


MES. M’NAB. 

Mrs. McNab was a native of Dumfries, Scotland, and 
had made her advent in the Miramichi country about five 
years previous to the occurrences just mentioned. 

Having buried her husband, mother, and two children, — 
hoping that change 'of scene might lighten the weight upon 
her spirits, she had concluded to emigi’ate with some in- 
timate acquaintances to the Province of New Brunswick. 

On first reaching the settlement, she had spent several 
weeks at the Dubois House, where she set immediately at 
work to prove her accomplishments, by assisting in mak- 
ing up dresses for Mrs. Dubois and Adele. 

She entertained them with accounts of her former life in 
Scotland, — talking largely about her acquaintance with the 
family of Lord Lindsay, in which she had served in tlie ca- 
pacity of nurse. She described the castle in wliich they 
resided, the furniture, the servants, and the grand company ; 
and, more than all, she knew or pretended to know the tra- 
ditions, legends, and ghost stories connected, for many gen- 
erations past, with the Lindsay race. 

She talked untiringly of these matters to the neighbors, 
20 


18 


MiKAivncin. 


exciting their interest and wonder by the new phases of life 
presented, and furnisliing food for the superstitious tenden- 
cies always rife in new and ignorant settlements. In short, 
by these means, she won her way gradually in the commu- 
nity, until she came to be the general factotum. 

It was noticed, indeed, that in the annual round of her vis- 
its from house to house, Mrs. McNab had a peculiar faculty 
of securing to herself the various material comforts available, 
having an excellent appetite and a genius for appropriating 
the warmest seat at the fireplace and any other little luxury 
a-going. These things were, however, overlooked, espe- 
cially by the women of the region, on account of her social 
qualities, she being an invaluable companion during the 
long days and evenings when their husbands and sons were 
away, engaged in lumbering or fisliing. When the family 
with which she happened to be sojourning Avere engaged 
in domestic occupations, Mrs. McNab, established in some 
cosey corner, told her old wife stories and whiled away the 
long and dismal wintry hours. 

Of all the people among Avhom she moved, Adele Dubois 
least exercised the grace of patience toAvard her. 

On the return of Mr. Dubois and his daughter to the 
house, after having seen the horses safely stOAved away, he 
refreshed himself at the tea-table and left the room to at- 
tend to necessary business. Mrs. Dubois and Mrs. Mc- 
Nab Avent to fit up an apartment for the stranger. 

In the mean time Mi' Norton and Adele were left Avith 
tiie invalid. 

IVIr. BroAAui’s face had lost its pallid hue and Avas noAV 


mRA3>ncHi. 


19 


overspread with the fiery glow of fever. He grew more 
and more restless in his sleep, until at length he opened liis 
eyes wide and began to talk deliriously. At the first sound 
of his voice, Adele started from her seat, expecting to hear 
some request from his lips. 

Gazing at her Avildly for a moment, he exclaimed, 
“ What, you here, Agnes ! you, travelling in this horrible 
'wilderness I Where’s your husband? Where’s John, the 
brave boy? Don’t bring them here to taunt me. Go 
away ! Don’t look at me ! ” 

With an expression of terror on his countenance, he sank 
back upon the pillow and closed his eyes. Mr. Norton 
knelt down by the couch and made slow, soothing motions 
with his hand upon the hot and fevered head, until the 
sick man sank again into slumber. Seeing this, Adele, 
who had been standing in mute bewilderment, came softly 
near and wliispered, ‘ ‘ He has been doing something wrong, 
has he not, sir? ” 

“ I hope not,” said the good man, He is not himself 
now, and is not aware what he is saying. His fever 
causes liis mind to wander.”' 

“Yes, sir. But I think he is unhappy beside being 
sick. That sigh was so sorrowful ! ” 

“ It was sad enough,” said Mr. Norton. After a pause, 
he continued, “ I will stay by his bed and take care of him 
tp-night.” 

“ Ah I 'vviU you, sir?” said Adele. “ That is kind, but 
Aunt Patty, I know, will insist on taking charge of him. 
She thinks it her right to take care of all the sick people. 


20 


MIEAIVIICIII. 


But I don’t wish her to stay with tliis gentleman to-night. 
If he talks again as he did just now, she wiU teU it all over 
the neighborhood.” 

At that moment, the door opened, and Mrs. McNab 
came waddling in, followed by hlr. and IMrs. Dubois. 

“Now, ]VIr. Doobyce,” said she, “ if you and tliis pus- 
son will just carry the patient up stairs, and place him on 
the bed, that’s a’ ye need do. I’ll tak’ care o’ him.” 

‘ ‘ Permit me the privilege of watching by the gentleman’s 
bed to-night,” said Mr. Norton, turning to hlr. Dubois. 

“ By no means, sir,” said liis host; “you have had a 
long ride tlwough the forest to-day and must be tired. 
Aunt Patty here prefers to take charge of liim.” 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Norton, “ I observed awhile ago, that 
his mind was quite wandering. He is greatly excited by 
fever, but I succeeded in quieting him once and perhaps 
may be able to do so again.” 

Here hlrs. hIcNab interposed in tones somewhat loud 
and irate. 

‘ ‘ That’s the way pussons fra’ your country always talk. 
They think they can do everything better’n anybody else. 
What can a mon do at nussin’, I wad ken ? ” 

“ hlr. Norton will nurse him well, I know. Let him 
take care of the gentleman, father,” said Adele. 

“ Hush, my dear,” said IMr. Dubois, decidedly, “ it is 
proper that JMrs. McNab take charge of hlr. Bro^vn to- 
night.” 

Adele made no reply, and only showed her vexation 
by casting a defiant look o» the redoubtable aunt Patty, 


MIEAJMICHI. 


21 


whose face was overspread with a grin of satisfaction at 
having carried her point. 

INIr. Norton, of course, did not press his proposal farther, 
but consoled liimself with the thought, that some futm'e 
opportunity might occur, enabling liim to fulfil his benevo- 
lent intentions. 

A quieting powder was administered and IMrs. IMcNab 
established herself beside the fire that had been kindled in 
Mr. Brown’s apartment. 

After having indicated to ]\Ii*. Norton the bedroom he 
was to occupy for the night, the family retired, leaving linn 
the only inmate of the room. 

As he sat and watched the dying embers, he fell into a 
reverie concerning the events of the evening. His musings 
were of a somewhat perplexed nature. He was at a loss to 
account for the appearance of a gentleman, bearing unmis- 
takable marks of refinement and wealth, as did IMr. Brown, 
under such circumstances, and in such a region as*]Mira- 
michi. The words he had uttered in his delirium, added 
to the mystery. He was also puzzled about the family of 
Dubois. How came people of such culture and superiority 
in this dark portion of the earth? How strange, that they 
had lived here so many years, without assimilating to the 
common herd around them. 

Thus lus mind, excited by what had recently occurred, 
wandered on, until at length his thoughts fell into their 
accustomed channel, — dwelling on his owm mission to this 
benighted land, and framing various schemes by which he 
might accomplish the object so dear to liis heart. 


22 


MIRAMICHI. 


In the mean time, having turned his face partially aside 
from the fire, he was watching unconsciously the fitful 
gleaming of a light cast on the opposite wall by the occa- 
sional flaring up of a tongue of flame from the dying 
embers. 

Suddenly he heard a deep, whu-ring sound as if the 
springs of some complicated machinery had just then been 
set in motion. 

Looking around to find whence the noise proceeded, he 
was rather startled on observing in the wall, in one comer, 
just under the ceiling, a tiny door fly open, and emerging 
thence a grotesque, miniature man, holding, uplifted in his 
hand, a hammer of size proportionate to his own figure. 
IMr. Norton sat motionless, while this small specimen pro- 
ceeded, with a jerky gait and many bobbing grimaces, 
across a wire stretched to the opposite corner of the room, 
where stood a tall, ebony clock. When within a short 
distance of the clock another, tiny door in its side flew 
open ; the little man entered and stmck deliberately with 
the hammer the hour of midnight. Near the top of the 
dial-plate was seen from without the regular uplifting of the 
little arm, applying its stroke to the bell witlun. Having 
perfoiTued his duty, this personage jerked out of the clock, 
the tiny door closing behind liim, bobbed and jerked along 
the wu-e as before, and disappeared at the door in the wall, 
wliich also immediately closed after his exit. 

Having witnessed the whole manoeuvre with comic won- 
der and curiosity, Mr, Norton burst into a loud and hearty 
peal of laughter, that was still resounding in the room when 


MIRA3IICIII. 23 

he became suddenly aware of the presence of Mrs. McNab. 
There she stood in the centre of the apartment, her firm, 
square figure apparently rooted to the floor, her head envel- 
oped in innumerable folds of white cotton, a tower of 
strength and defiance. 

Her unexpected appearance changed in a moment the 
mood of the good man, and he inquii-ed anxiously, “ Is the 
gentleman more ill ? Can I assist you ? ” 

“ He’s just this minnut closed liis eyes to sleep, and naw 
I expect he’s wide awake again, with the dreadfu’ racket 
you were just a makin’. O ! my ! wadna you hae made a 
good nuss ? ” 

Mr. Norton truly grieved at his inadvertency in disturb- 
ing the household at this late hour of the night, begged 
pardon, and told Mrs. MeNab he would not be guilty of a 
like offence. 

‘ ‘ How has the gentleman been dming the evening ? ” he 
asked. 

“ O ! he’s been ravin’ crazy a’maist, and obstacled every- 
thing I’ve done for him. He’s a very sick pusson naw. I 
cam’ down to get a bottle of muddeson,” and Mrs. McNab 
went to a closet and took from it the identical bottle of 
brandy from which Mrs. Dubois had poured when prepar- 
ing the stimulatiag dose for the invalid. Mr. Norton 
observed this performance with a twinkle of the eye, but 
making no comment, the worthy woman retired from the 
room. 

That night Mr. Norton slept indifferently, being dis- 
turbed by exciting and bewildering dreams. In lus slum- 


24 


MRAIMICHI. 


bers he saw an immense cathedral, lighted only by what 
seemed some great conflagration without, wliich, glaring in, 
with horrid, crimson hue upon the pictm^ed walls, gave the 
place the strange, lurid aspect of Pandemonium. The 
efiect was heightened by the appearance of thousands of 
small, grotesque beings, all bearing more or less resem- 
blance to the little man of the clock, who were flying and 
bobbing, jerking and gi’inning tlurough the air, beneath the 
great vault, as if madly revelling in the scene. Yet the 
good man all the wliile had a vague sense of some a^vful, 
impending calamity, wliich increased as he wandered 
around in great perplexity, exploring the countenances of 
the various groups scattered over the place. 

Once he stumbled over a dead body and found it the 
corpse of the invalid in the room above. He seemed to 
himself to be lifting it carefully, when a lady, fair and 
stately, in rich, sweeping garments, took the burden from 
his arms, and, sinldng with it on the floor, Idssed it tenderly 
and then bent over it with a look of intense sorrow. 

Farther on he saw jMt. and Mrs. Dubois, with Adele, 
kneeling imploringly, with terror-stricken faces, before a 
representation of the Virgin IMary and her divine boy. 
Then the glare of light in the building increased. Rush- 
ing to the entrance to look for the cause of it, he there met 
Mrs. McNab coming towards him with* a ivild, disordered 
countenance, — her white cotton head-gear floating out like 
a banner to the breeze, — shaldng a brandy bottle in the 
faces of all she met. He gained the door and found himself 
enwrapped in a sheet of flame. 


« MIRAMICHI. 


25 


Suddenly the whole scene passed. He woke. A glori- 
ous September sun was irradiating the walls of liis bed- 
room. He heard the movements of the family below, and 
rose hastily. 

A few moments of thought and prayer sufficed to clear 
his healthy brain of the fantastic forms and scenes which 
had invaded it, and he was himself again, ready and pant- 
ing for service. 


3 


CHAPTER HI. 


MR. NORTON. 

In order to bring Mr. Norton more distinctly before the 
reader, it is necessary to give a few particulars of liis pre- 
vious life. 

He was the son of a New England farmer. His father 
had given him a good moral and religious training and the 
usual common school education, but, being poor and having 
a large family to provide for, he had turned him adrift upon 
the sea of life, to shape his own course and win his o^vn for- 
tunes. These, in some respects, he was well calculated to do. 

He possessed a frame hardened by labor, and, to a native 
shrewdness and self reliance, added traits which threw light 
and warmth into his character. His sympathies were easily 
roused by suffering and want. He spurned everything mean 
and ungenerous, — was genial in disposition, indeed brim- 
ming with mirthfulness, and, in every situation, attracted to 
himself numerous friends. He was, moreover, an excellent 
blacksmith. 

After leaving Ids father’s roof, for a half score of years, 
he was led into scenes of temptation and danger. But, hav- 
ing passed tlirough various fortunes, the whispers of the 


MIEAMICHI. 


27 


internal monitor, and the voice of a loving wife, drew him 
into better and safer paths. He betook himself unremit- 
tingly to the duties of his occupation. 

By the influence of early parental training, and the teach- 
ings of the Heavenly Spirit, he was led into a religious life. 
He dedicated himself unreservedly to Christ. Tliis intro- 
duced him into a new sphere of effort, one, in which his nat- 
urally expansive nature found free scope. He became aii 
active, devoted, joyous follower of the Great Master, and, 
thenceforward, desired nothing so much as to labor in his 
service. 

About a year after tliis important change, a circumstance 
occuiTed which altered the course of his outward life. 

It happened that a stranger came to pass a night at his 
house. During the conversation of a long winter evening, 
his curiosity became greatly excited, in an account, given 
by his guest, of the Miramichi region. He was astonished 
at the moral darkness reigning there. The place was dis- 
tant, and, at that time, almost inaccessible to any, save the 
strong and hardy. But the light of life ought to be thrown 
into that darkness. Who should go as a torch-bearer? 
The inquiry had scarcely risen in his breast, before he 
thought he heard the words spoken almost audibly. Thou 
must go. 

Here, a peculiarity of the good blaclismith must be ex- 
plained. Possessed of great practical wisdom and saga- 
city, he was yet easily affected by preternatural influences. 
He was subject to very strong “ impressions of mind,” as 
he called them, by which he was urged to pursue one 


28 


mRAmcm. 


course of conduct instead of another ; to follow out one 
plan of business in preference to another, even when there 
seemed to be no apparent reason, whj the one course was 
better than its alternative. He had sometimes obeyed these 
impressions, sometimes had not. But he thought he had 
found, in the end, that he should have invariably followed 
them. 

A particular instance confirmed him in this belief. One 
day, being in New York, he was extremely anxious to 
complete his business in order to take passage home in a 
sloop, announced to leave port at a certain hour in the 
afternoon. Resolving to be on board the vessel at the time 
appointed, he hurried from place to place, from street to 
street, in the accomplishment of his plan. But he was 
strangely hindered in his arrangements and haunted by an 
impression of trouble connected with the vessel. Having, 
however, left his wife ill at home, and being stdl determined 
to go, he pressed on. It happened that he arrived at the 
wharf just as the sloop had got beyond the possibility of 
reaching her, and he turned away bitterly disappointed. The 
night that followed was one of darkness and horror ; the 
sloop caught fire and all on board perished. 

He had now received an impression that it was his duty 
to go, as an ambassador of Christ, to Miramichi. 

Having for sometime previous “ exercised his gift” with 
acceptance at various social religious meetings, he applied 
to the authorities of his religious denomination for license 
to preach. 

After passing a creditable examination on points deemed 


MIUAMICHI. 


29 


essential in the case, he obtained a commission and a cor- 
dial God speed from his brethren. They augured well for 
his success. 

To be sure, the deficiencies of his early education some- 
times made themselves manifest, notwithstanding the diligent 
efforts he had put forth, of late years, to remedy the lack. 
But on the other hand, he had knowledge of human nature, 
sagacity in adapting means to ends, a wide tolerance of 
those unfortunate oneS, involved by whatever ways in 
guilt, deep and earnest piety, and a remarkable natural 
eloquence, both winning and forcible. 

So he had started on his long journey through the wilder- 
ness, and here, at last, he is found, on the banks of the 
IVIiramichi, cheerful and active, engaged in his great work. 

The reader was informed, at the close of the last chap- 
ter, that after the perplexing visions of the night, by the 
use of eharms of wliich he well knew the power, Mr. 
Norton had cleared his brain of the unpleasant phantoms 
that had Invaded it during his slumbers. Being quick and 
forgetive in his mental operations, even while completing 
his toilet, he had formed a plan for an attack upon the 
kingdom of darkness lying around him. 

As he entered the room, the scene of his last night’s ad- 
venture, his face beaming with cheerfulness and courage, 
Adele, who was just then laying the table, thought his ap- 
pearance there like another sunrise. 

After the morning salutations were over, he looked 
around the apartment, observing it, in its daylight aspect, 
with a somewhat puzzled air. In some respects, it was 
3 * 


30 


mRAAncm. 


entirely unlike what he had seen before. The broad stone 
hearth, with its large blazing fire, the Dutch oven, the 
air of neatness and thrift, were like those of a New Eng- 
land kitchen, but here the resemblance ceased. 

A paper-hanging, whose originally rich hues had be- 
come in a measure dimmed, covered the walls ; and cu- 
rious old pictures hung around; the chairs and tables 
were of heavy dark wood, elaborately and grotesquely car- 
ved, as was also the ebony clock in the corner, whose won- 
derful mechanism had so astonished him on the previous 
evening. A low lounge, covered with a crimson material, 
occupied a remote corner of the room, with a Turkish mat 
spread on the floor before it. At the head of the couch 
was a case, curiously carved, filled with books, and be- 
neath, in a little niche in the wall, a yellow ivory crucifix. 

It did not occur to the good man to make any compari- 
son between this room with its peculiar adornings, .and the 
Puritan kitchen mth its stiif, stark furniture. One of the 
latter description was found in his own home, and the place 
where his loved ones lived and moved, was to him invested 
with a beauty altogether independent of outward form and 
show. But, as he looked around with an air of satisfac- 
tion, this room evidently pleased his eye, and he paid an 
involuntary tribute to its historic suggestiveness, by falling 
into a reverie concerning the life and times of the good Ro- 
man Catholic Fenelon, whose memoir and writings he had 
read. 

Soon Adele called liim to the breakfast-table. 

Mrs. McNab not having made her appearance, he in- 


MIRA3IICHI. 


31 


qiiired if any tidings had been heard from the sick-room. 
Mrs. Dubois replied, that she had listened at the door and 
hearing no sound, concluded IMr. Brown was quiet under 
the influence of the sleeping powder, and consequently, she 
did not run the risk of disturbing him by going in. 

“Should Aunt Patty happen to begin snoring in her 
chair, as she often does,” said Adele, “Mr. Brown would 
be obliged to wake up. I defy any one to sleep when 
she gets into one of those fits.” 

“Adele,” said her father, while a smile played round his 
mouth and twinkled in his usually grave eyes, “ can’t you 
let ]\Irs. McNab have any peace?” 

“ Is iVIr. Brown a friend of yours?” inquired IMr. Norton 
of his host. 

“I met liim for the first time at Fredericton. He was at 
the hotel when I arrived there. "VVe accidentally fell into 
conversation one evening. He made, then and subsequent- 
ly, many inquiries about this region, and when I was ready 
to start for home, said that, with my permission, he would 
travel with me. I fancy,” Mr. Dubois added, “ he was 
somewhat ill when we left, but he did not speak of it. 
We had a rough journey and I think the exposure to 
which he was subjected has increased his sickness. If he 
proves to be no better to-day, I shall send Micah for Dr. 
Wright,” said he, tnming to his wife. “I hope you will, 
father,” said Adele, speaking very decidedly. “I should 
be sorry to have him consigned over wholly to the tender 
mercies of Mrs. McNab.” 

“Mr. Dubois,” said the missionary, laying down his 


32 


aiiRAsncm. 


knife and fork, suddenly, “ I must- confess, I am perfectly 
surprised to find such a family as yours in this place. From 
previous report, and indeed from my own observation in 
reaching here, I had received the idea, that the inhabi- 
tants were not only a wicked, but a very rude and un- 
couth set of people.” 

“Whatever may be your opinion of ourselves, sir,” 
replied his host, “ you are not far amiss in regard to the 
character of the people. They are, in general, a rough set.” 

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Norton, “as an lionest man, I 
must inform you, that I came here with a purpose in view. 
I have a message to this people, — a message of love and 
mercy ; and I trust it will not be displeasing to you, if I 
promulgate it in this neighborhood.” 

“ I do not understand your meaning,” said Mr. Dubois. 

“ I wish, sir, to teach these people, some of the truths of 
morality and religion such as are found in the Bible. I 
have ventured to guess that you and your family are of the 
Roman Catholic faith.” 

“ We belong to the communion of that church, sir.” 

“ That being the case, and thinking you may have some 
interest in this matter, I would say, that I wish to make an 
attempt to teach the knowledge of divine things to this 
people, hoping thereby to raise them from their present 
state to something better and holier.” 

“A worthy object, sir, but altogether a hopeless one. 
You have no idea of the condition of the settlers here. 
You cannot get a hearing. They scoff at such things 
utterly,” said Mr. Dubois. 


MlEAMICm. 


33 


“Is there any objection in your own mind against an 
endeavor to enlist their interest?” asked JVIr. Norton. 

“ Not the least,” said JNIr. Dubois. 

“ T£en I ^vLll try to collect the people together and tell 
them my views and wishes. Is there any man here hav- 
ing influence with this class, who would be willing to aid 
me in this movement ? ” 

IMr. Dubois meditated. 

“ I do not know of one, sir,” he said. “ They all drink, 
swear, gamble, and profane holy things, and seem to have 
no respect for either God or man.” 

“ It is too true,” remarked IVIrs. Dubois. 

“ Now, father,” said Adele, assuming an air of wisdom, 
that sat rather comically on her youthful brow, “ J tliink 
IVIicah Mummychog would be just the person to help this 
gentleman.” ** 

“ IVIicah Mummychog !” exclaimed Mr. Norton, throw- 
ing himself back in his chair and shaking out of his lungs 
a huge, involuntary haw, haw, “where does the person 
you speak of hail from to own such a name as that, my 
dear cliild?” 

‘ ‘ I rather think he came from Yankee land, — from your 
part of the country, sir,” said Adele, mischievously. 

“Ah, well,” said Mr. Norton, with another peal of 
laughter, “ we have some curious names in our parts.” 

“ Micah Mummychog ! ” exclaimed Mr. Dubois, “ what 
•are you thinking of, Adele? Why, the fellow drinks and 
swears as hard as the rest X)f them.” 

“ Not quite,” persisted the child, “and besides, he has 
some good about him, I know.” 


34 


JIIKAMICHI. 


“What have you seen good about him, pray?” said her 
father. 

‘ ‘ Wliy, you remember that when I discovered the little 
girl floating down the river, Micah took his boat an5 went 
out to bring her ashore. He took the body, dripping, in 
his arms, carried it to his house, and laid it down as ten- 
derly as if it had been his own sister. He asked me to 
please go and get IMrs. McNab to come and prepare it for 
burial. The little thing, he said, was entirely dead and 
gone. I started to go, as he wished, but happened to 
think I would just step back and look at the sweet face 
once more. When I opened the door, IVIicah was bending 
over it, with his eyes full of tears. When I asked, what 
is the matter, Micah? he said he was^ thinking of a little 
sister of his that was drowned just so in the Kennebec 
River ^many years ago.” 

“That showed some feeling, certainly,” said IMrs. Du- 
bois. 

“ Then, too, I know,” continued Adele, “ that the peo- 
ple here like him. If any one can get them together, 
IVIicah can.” ' 

“ Well ! ” said IVIr. Dubois looking at his child with a 
fond pride, yet as if doubting whether she were not already 
half spoiled, ‘ ‘ it seems you are the wiseacre of the family. I 
know Micah has always been a favorite of yours. Perhaps 
the gentleman will give your views some consideration.” 

“Father,” replied Adele, “I have only said what I 
think about iti” 

“ ril try what I can do with IVIicah Mummychog,” said 
Mr. Norton decidedly, and the conversation ended. 


CHAPTER IV. 


MICAH MIBIMYCHOG. 

About ten years before the period when this narrative 
begins, IVIicah jMummychog had come to this country from 
the Kennebec River, in the State of Maine. 

He soon purchased a dozen acres of land, partially 
cleared them, and built a large-sized, comfortable log 
house. It was situated not far from the Dubois house, at 
a short distance from the bank of the river, and on the 
edge of a grove of forest trees. 

IMicah inliabited his house usually only a few months 
during the year, as he was a cordial lover of the unbroken 
wilderness, and was as migratory in liis habits as the native 
Indian. On the morning after the events related in the 
last chapter, he happened to be at home. While Adele 
was guiding the missionary to his cottage, he was sitting 
in his kitchen, wliich also served for a general reception 
room, burnishing up an old Dutch fowling-piece. 

The apartment was furnished with cooking utensils, and 
coarse wooden furniture ; the walls hung around with fishing 
tackle, moose-horns, skins of wild animals and a variety of 
firearms. 


36 


MTRAm CHl. 


IVIicali was no common, stupid, bumpkin-looking person. 
Belonging to the genus Yankee, he had yet a few peculiar 
traits of his own. He had a smallish, bullet-shaped head, 
set, with dignified poise, on a pair of wide, flat shoulders. 
His chest was broad and swelling, his limbs straight, mus- 
cular, and strong. His eyes were large, round, and blue. 
When his mind was in a state of repose and his counten- 
ance at rest, they had a solemn, owl-like expression. But 
when in an excited, observant mood, they were keen and 
searching ; and human orbs surely never expressed more 
rollicking fun than did his, in his hours of recreation. He 
had a habit of darting them around a wide circle of objects, 
without turning his head a hairsbreadth. Tliis, together 
with another peculiarity of turning his head, occasionally, 
at a sharp angle, with the quick and sudden motion of a 
cat, probably was acquired in his hunting life. 

Micah had never taken to himself a helpmate, and as far 
as mere housekeeping was concerned, one would judge, on 
looldng around the decent, tidy apartment in which he sat 
and of which he had the sole care, that he did not particularly 
need one. He washed, scoured, baked, brewed, swept and 
dusted as deftly as any woman, and did it all as a matter of 
course. These were, however, only his minor accomplish- 
ments. He commanded the highest wages in the lumber 
camp, was the best fisherman to be found in the region, and 
had the good luck of always bringing down any game he 
had set his heart upon. 

Micah had faults, but let these pass for the present. 
There was one achievement of his, worthy of all praise. 


MIRAMICm. 


37 


It was remarked, that the loggeiy was situated on the 
edge of a grove. This grove, when ISIicah came, was “a 
piece of woods,” of the densest and most tangled sort. 
By liis strong arm, it had been transformed into a scene of 
exceeding beauty. He had cut away the under growth and 
smaller trees, leaving the taller sons of the forest still rising 
loftily and waving their banners toward heaven. It formed 
a magnificent natural temple, and as the sun struck in 
through the long, broad aisles, soft and rich were the lights 
and shadows that flickered over the green floor. The lofty 
arches, formed by the meeting and interlaced branches 
above, were often resonant with music. During the spring 
and summer months, matin worship was constantly per- 
formed by a multitudinous choir, and praises were chanted 
by tiny-throated warblers, raising their notes upon the deep, 
organ base, rolled into the harmony by the grand old pines. 

It is true, that hardly a human soul worshipped here, 
but when the “Te Deum” rose toward heaven, thousands 
of blue, pink, and white blossoms turned their eyes upward 
wet with dewy moisture, the hoary mosses waved their 
tresses, the larches shook their tassels gayly, the birches 
quivered and thrilled with joy in every leaf, and the rivulets 
gurgled forth a silvery sound of gladness. On this partic- 
ular September morning Micah’s grove was radiant with 
beauty. The wild equinoctial storm, which had so fiercely 
assailed it the day before, had brightened it into fresh ver- 
dure and now it glittered in the sunbeams as if bejewelled 
with emerald. 

Mr. Norton and Adele reached the cottage door, on 
which she tapped softly. 4 


38 


MIRAMICHI. 


“ Come in,” Micah almost shouted, without moving from 
his seat or looking up from his occupation. 

The maiden opened the door, and said, “Good morning, 
Mcah.” 

At the sound of her voice he rose instantly and handing 
a chair into the middle of the floor, said, “O ! come in, 
Miss Ady ; I did n’t know ez it was yeou.” 

“ I cannot stop now, IVIicah, but here is a gentleman who 
has a little business with you. I came to show him the 
way. This is Mr. Norton.” 

And away Adele sped, without farther ceremony. 

Micah looked after her for a moment, with a half smile 
on his weather-beaten face, then turned and motioning IVIr. 
Norton to a chair, reseated himself on a wooden chest, with 
his gun, upon which he again commenced operations, his 
countenance setting into its usual owl-like solemnity. 

He was not courtly in his reception of strangers. The 
missionary, however, had dealt with several varieties of 
the human animal before, and was by no means distm'bed 
at this nonchalance. 

“ I believe you are from the States, as well as myself, 
]\Ir. Mummychog,” said he, after a short silence. 

“ I’m from the Kennebec River,” said Micah, laconically. 

“ I am quite extensively acquainted in that region, but 
do not remember to have heard yom' name before. It is 
rather an uncommon one.” 

“ I guess ye won’t find many folks in them parts, ez is 
called Mummychog,” said Micah, with a twinkle of the eye 
and something like a grin, on his sombre visage. 


MTRAMT Cmr. 


39 


“ You Ve a snug place here, Mr. Micah,” said Mr. Nor- 
ton, who, having found some difficulty in restraining a smile, 
when repeating Mr. Mummychog’s surname, concluded to 
drop it altogether, ‘ ‘ but what could have induced you to leave 
the pleasant Kennebec and come to this distant spot ? ” 

“Well, I cam’ to git a chance and be somwhere, where I 
could jest be let alone.” 

‘ ‘A chance for what, IVIr. Micah ? ” 

“ Why, hang it, a chance to live an’ dew abeout what I 
want tew. The moose an’ wolves an’ wildcats hev all ben 
hunted eout o’ that kentry. Thar wa ’nt no kind ev a chance 
there. So I cam’ here. 

“ You have a wife, I suppose, Mr. Micah?” 

“ Wife ! no. Do ye spose I want to hev a woman kep’ 
skeered a most to death abeout me, all the time ? I’m a 
fishin’ an’ huntin good part o’ the year. Wild beasts and 
sech, is what I like.” 

“ Don’t you feel lonely here, sometimes, Mr IMicah?” 

‘ ‘ Lunsum ! no. There’s plenty o’ fellers reound here, 
all the time. They ’re a heowlin’ set tew, ez ever I see.” 

“ You have a good gun there,” suggested the missionary. 

“ Well, tolable,” said Micah, looking up for the first time 
since Mr., Norton had entered the house, and scanning him 
from head to foot mth his keen, penetrating glance. “ I 
spose you aint much used to firearms ? ” 

‘ ‘ I have some acquaintance with them ; but my present 
vocation don’t require their use.” 

Here IVIr. Mummychog rose, and laying his gun on the 
table, scratched his head, turned toward Mr. Norton and 
said, “ Hev yeou any pertikilar business with me?” 


40 


MERAMICm. 


“ Yes sir, I have. I came to Miramiclii to accomplish 
an important object, and I don’t know of another person 
who can help me about it so«well as you can.” 

“Well, I dunno. 'VYhat upon arth is it? ” 

“ To be plain upon the point,” said the missionary, look- 
ing serious and earnest, ‘ ‘ I have come here to preach the 
gospel of Christ.” 

“ Whew ! religin, is it? I can tell ye right off, its no go 
en these ere parts.” 

“Don’t you think a little religion is needed here, IMr. 
Micah?” 

“Well, I dunno. Tomt wanted. Folks ez lives here, 
can’t abide sermans and prayers en that doleful stuff.” 

“You say you came here for a chance, JSIr. Micah. I 
suppose your friends came for the same purpose. Now, I 
have come to show them, not a chance, but a glorious cer- 
tainty for happiness in this world and in the eternity 
beyond.” 

“Well, they don’t want tew know anything abeoutit. 
They just want tew be let alone,” said Micah. 

“I suppose they do wish to be let alone,” said Mr. 
Norton. ‘ ‘ But I cannot permit them to go doWn to wretch- 
edness and sorrow unwarned. You have influence with your 
friends here,* Mr. IVIicah. If you will collect the men, 
women, and children of this neighborhood together, some 
afternoon, in your beautiful grove, I will promise to give 
them not a long sermon, but something that will do them 
good to hear.” 

‘ ‘ I can’t dew it no heow. There ’s ben preachers along here 


MIEAMICHI. 


41 


afore, an’ a few ’ud go eout o’ curiosity, an’ some to make 
a distmbance an’ seek, an’ it never ’meounts to anything, 
no heow. Then spftsin we haint dun jest as we ’d oughter, 
who’se gin yeou the right tew twit us on it?” 

“I certainly have no right, on my own responsibility, to 
reproach you, or your friends for sin, for I am a sinful man 
myself and have daily need of repentance. But I trust I 
have found out a way of redemption from guilt, and I wish 
to communicate it to my fellow-beings that they also may 
have knowledge of it, and fly fo Christ, their only safety 
and happiness in this world.” 

IMicah made no reply. 

There was a pause of several minutes, and then the mis- 
sionary rose and said, “Well, Mr. IVIicah, if you can’t help 
me, you can’t. The little maiden that came with me, told 
me you could render me aid, if any one could, and from 
what she said, I entertained a hope of your assistance. 
The Lord will remove the obstacles to proclaiming this sal- 
vation in some way, I know.” 

“Miss Ady didn’t say I could help ye neow, did she?” 
said IMicah, scratching his head. 

‘ ‘ Certainly. Why did she bring me here ? ” 

“Well, ef that aint tarnal queer,” said Micah, falling 
into a deep reverie. 

In a few moments, Mr. Norton shook his new acquaint- 
ance heartily by the hand and bade him good morning. 
Was the good man discouraged in his efforts? By no 
means. 

He had placed in the mind of IVIicali Mummychog a 

4 * 


42 


simAincHi. 


small fusee, so to speak, which he foresaw would fire a 
whole train of discarded ideas and cast-oflf thoughts, and he 
expected to hear from it. 

He filled up the day with a round of calls upon the va- 
rious families of the neighborhood, and came home to his 
lodgings at Mr. Dubois’s with his heart overwhelmed by 
the ignorance and debasement he had witnessed. 

Yet his courage and hopes were strong. 


CHAPTER V. 


MRS. LANSDOWNE. 

P is a city by the sea. Built upon an elevated 

peninsula, siurounded by a country of manifold resources 
of beauty and fertility, with a fine, broad harbor, it sits 
queenlike in conscious power, facing with serene aspect the 
ever-restless waves that wash continually its feet. The 
place might be called ancient, if that term could properly 
be applied to any of the works of man on New Eng- 
land shores. There are parts of it, where the architecture 
of whole streets looks quaint and time-worn ; here and 
there a few antique churches appear, but modem stmc- 
tures predominate, and the place is full of vigorous life and 
industry. 

It was sunset. The sky was suffused with the richest 
carmine. The waters lay quivering beneath the palpitat- 
ing,- rosy light. The spires and domes of the town 
caught the ethereal hues and the emerald lulls were bathed 
in the glowing atmosphere. 

In a large apartment, in the second story of a tall, brick 
mansion on street, sat Mrs. Lansdowne.^ Suscepti- 

ble though she was to the attractions of the scene before 


44 


MIRA3IICHI. 


her, they did not now occupy her attention. Her brow 
was contracted with painful thought, her lip quivered with 
deep emotion. The greatest sorrow she had known had 
fallen upon her through the error of one whom she fondly 
loved. 

Though enwrapped in a cloud of grief, one could see 
that she possessed beauty of a rich and rare type. She 
had the delicate, aquiline nose, the dark, lustrous eyes and 
hair, the finely arched eyebrows of the Hebrew woman. 
But she was no Jewess. • 

Mrs. Lansdowne could number in her ancestry men 
who had been notable leaders in the Revolutionary war 
with England, and, later in our history, others, who were 
remarkable for patriotism, nobility of character, intellectual 
ability, and high moral and religious culture. 

Early in life, she had been united to Mr. Lansdowne, a 
gentleman moving in the same rank of society with her- 
self. His health obliged liim to give up the professional life 
he anticipated, and he had become a prosperous and enter- 
prising merchant in liis native city. They had an only 
child, a son eighteen years old, who in the progress of his 
collegiate course had just entered the senior year. 

Edward Somers was IVIrs. Lansdowne’s only brother, her 
mother having died a week after his birth. She was eleven 
years of age at the time, and from that early period had 
watched over and loved him tenderly. He had grown up 
handsome and accomplished, fascinating in manners and 
most affectionate toward herself. She had learned that he 
had been engaged in what appeared, upon the face of it, a 


MIRAJVnCHI. 


45 


dishonorable affair, and her sensitive nature had been greatly 
shocked. 

Two years before, Mr. Lansdowne had taken bim as a 
junior partner in his business. He had since been a mem- 
ber of his sister’s family. 

A young foreigner had come to reside in the city, profess- 
ing himself a member of a noble Italian family. Giuseppe 
Rossini was poet, orator, and musician. As poet and orator 
he was pleasing and graceful ; as a musician he excelled. 
He was a brilliant and not obtrusive conversationalist. His 
enthusiastic expressions of admiration for om: free institu- 
tions won him favor with all classes. In the fashionable 
circle he soon became a pet. 

Mrs. Lansdowne had from the first distrusted him. 
There was no tangible foundation for her suspicions, but 
she had not .been able to overcome a certain instinct that 
warned her from his presence. She watched, with mis- 
givings of heart, her brother’s growing familiarity with the 
Italian. A facility of temper, his characteristic from boy- 
hood, made her fear that he might not be able to withstand 
the soft, insinuating voice that veils gmlty designs by 
winning sophistries and appeals to sympathy and friendship. 
And so it proved. 

One day, m extreme agitation, Rossini came to Mr. 
Somers, requesting the loan of a considerable sum of 
money, to meet demands made upon him. Remittances 
daily expected from Europe had failed to reach him. Mr. 
Somers was unable to command so large a sum as he 
required. His senior partner was absent from home. But 


46 


MIRAMICHI. 


the wily Rossini so won upon his sympathies, that he went 
to the private safe of his brother-in-law, and took from 
thence the money necessary to free liis friend from embar- 
rassment. He never saw the Italian again. 

When the treachery of which he had been the victim 
burst upon him, together with his own weakness and guilt, 
he was filled with shame and remorse. Mr. Lansdowne 
was a man of stern integrity and uncompromising justice. 
He dared not meet his eye on his return, and he dreaded 
to communicate the unworthy transaction to his sister, who 
had so gently yet so faithfully warned him. 

He made desperate efforts to get traces of the villain 
who had deceived him. Unsuccessful — maddened with 
sorrow and shame, he wrote a brief note of farewell to Mrs. 
Lansdowne, in which he confessed the wrong he had com- 
mitted against her husband, which Mr. Lansdowne would 
reveal to her. He begged her to think as kindly of him 
as possible, averring that an hour before the deed was 
done, he could not have believed himself capable of it. 
Then he forsook the city. 

When these occurrences were communicated to Mr. 
Lansdowne, he was filled with surprise and indignation, — 
not at the pecuniary loss, which, with his ample wealth, 
was of little moment to him, but on account of such impru- 
dence and folly, where he least expected it. 

A few hours, however, greatly modified his view of the 
case. He had found, in the safe, a note from IMr. Somers, 
stating the circumstances imder which he had taken the 
money and also the disappearance of Rossini. This, to- 


MIKAMICm. 


47 


gether with his wife’s distress, softened his feelings to such 
a degree that he consented to recall his brother and rein- 
state him in liis former place in business. 

But whither had the fugitive gone? IVIrs Lansdowne 
found no clue to his intended destination. 

During the morning of the day on which she is first in- 
troduced to the attention of the reader, she had visited his 
apartment to make a more thorough exploration. Look- 
ing around the room, she saw lying in the fireplace a bit 
of paper, half buried in the ashes. She drew it out, and 
after examining carefully found written upon it a few 
words that kindled a new hope in her heart. Taking it to 
her husband, a consultation was held.upon its contents and 
an expedition planned, of which an account will be given 
in the next chapter. 

She was now the prey of conflicting emotions. The ex- 
pedition, which had that day been arranged, involved a 
sacrifice of feeling on her part, greater she feared than she 
would be able to make. 

But in order to recover her brother to home, honor, and 
happiness, it seemed necessary to be made. Voices from 
the dead were pleading at her heart incessantly, urging 
her, at whatever cost, to seek and save him, who, with 
herself, constituted the only remnant of their family left on 
earth. Her o^vn affection for liim also pressed its elo- 
quent suit, and at last the decision was confirmed. She 
resolved to venture her son in the quest. 

In the mean time, the sunset hues had faded from the sky 
and evening had approached. The golden full moon had 


48 


JHRAMICHT. 


risen and was now shining in at the broad window, bring- 
ing into beautiful relief the delicate tracery on the high 
cornices, the rich carvings of the mahogany furniture, and 
striking out a soft sheen from Mrs. Lansdowne’s black 
satin dress, as she moved slowly to and fro, through the 
light. 

She seated herself once more at the window and gazed 
upon the lovely orb of night. A portion of its serenity en- 
tered and tranquillized her soul. The cloud of care and 
anxiety passed from her brow, leaving it smooth and pure 
as that of an angel. 


CHAPTER VI. 


“JOHN, DEAE.” 

On the evening that IMrs. Lansdowne was thus occupied, 
John, her son, who had been out on the bay all the after- 
noon, rushed past the drawing-room door, bounded up the 
long staircase, entered his room, situated on the same floor, 
not far from his mother’s, and rang the bell violently. 

In a few minutes. Aunt Esther, an ancient black woman, 
who had long been in the service of the family, made her 
appearance at the door, and inquired what “Massa John” 
wanted. 

“I want some fire here. Aunt Esther. I’ve been out on 
the bay, fishing. Our smack got run down, and IVe had a 
ducking ; I feel decidedly chilly.” 

“Law sakes !” said she, in great trepidation, “yer orter 
get warm right away,” and hastened down stairs. 

A stout, hale man, soon entered the room, "with a basket 
of wood and a pan of coals, followed immediately by Aunt 
Esther, who began to arrange them on the hearth. 

Aunt Esther’s complexion was of a pure shining black, 
her features of the size and cut usually accompanjdng that 
hue, and lighted up by a contented, sunshiny expression. 


50 




which truly indicated the normal state of her mind. A 
brilliant, yellow turban sat well upon her woolly locks and 
a blue and red chintz dress, striped perpendicularly, some- 
Avhat elongated the effect of her stout dumpy figure. She 
had taken care of John during his babyhood and early boy- 
hood, and he remained to this day her especial pet and pride. 

“Aunt Esther,” said that young man, throwing himself 
into an easy-chair, and assuming as lackadaisical an ex- 
pression as his frank and roguish face would allow, “I 
have just lost a friend.” 

“ Yer have?” said his old nurse, looking round compas- 
sionately. 

“^Vhen did yer lose him?” 

“About an hour ago.” 

“What did he die of, Massa John?” 

“Of a painful nervous disease,” said he. 

“How old was he?” 

“A few years younger than I am.” 

‘ ‘ Did he die hard ? ” 

“Very hard. Aunt Esther,” said John, looking solemn. 

“Had yer known him long?” 

“Yes, a long time.” - 

Aunt Esther gave a deep sigh. “Does yer know weder 
he was pious?” 

“Well, here he is. Perhaps you can tell by looking at 
him,” said he, handing her a tooth, he had just had ex- 
tracted, and bursting into a boyish laugh. 

“ O ! yer go along, Massa John. I might hev knowed 
it was one of yer deceitful tricks,” said Aunt Esther, trying 


MIRAIVIICHI. 


51 


to conceal- her amusement, Kj putting on an injured look. 
“There, the fire burns now. Yer jest put on them dry 
clothes as quick as ever yer can, or mebbe ye ’ll lose another 
friend before long.” 

“It shall be done as yoii say, beloved Aunt Esther,” 
said he, rising and bowing profoundly, as she left the room. 

Having obeyed the worthy woman’s injunction, he drew 
the easy-chair to the fire, leaned his head back and spent 
the next half hour hovering between consciousness and 
dreamland. 

From this state, he was roused by a gentle tap on his 
door, followed by his mother’s voice, saying, ‘ ‘ John, dear ? ’» 

John rose instantly, threw the door wide oj^en and 
ushered in the lady, saying, “ Come in, little queen mother, 
come in,” and bowing over her hand with a pompous, yet 
courtly grace. 

Mrs. Lansdowne, when seen a short time since walking 
in her solitude, seemed quite lofty in stature, but now, 
standing for a moment beside the regal height of her son, 
one coidd fully justify him in bestowing upon her the title 
with which he had greeted her. 

John Lansdowne was fast developing, physically as well 
as mentally into a noble manhood, and it was no wonder 
that his mother’s heart swelled with pride and joy when she 
looked upon him. Straight, muscular, and vigorous in 
form, his features and expression were jJrecisely her OAvn, 
enlarged and intensified. Open and generous in disj^osition, 
his character had a certain quality of firmness, quite in 
contrast with that of his uncle Edward, and this she had 


52 


MIILViUClU. 


carefully sought to strengthen. In the pursuit of his 
studies, he had thus far been earnest and successful. 

During the last half year, however, he had chafed under 
the confinements of student life, and having now become 
quite restive in the harness, he had asked his father for a 
few months of freedom from books. He wished to explore 
a wilderness, to go on a foreign voyage, to wander away, 
away, anywher^ beyond the sight of college walls. 

“John,” said IVIrs. Lansdowne, “I have been con- 
versing with your father on the subject, and he has con- 
sented to an expedition for you.” 

“ O ! gloriofis ! mother where am I to go ? to the Bar- 
can desert, or to the Arctic Ocean ? ” 

“You are to make a jornmey to the IVIiramiclii River?” 

“ Mii’amiclii ! ” said John, after a brief pause, “I 
thought I had a slight acquaintance with geography, but 
where in the wide world is Miramichi ? ” 

“It is in the province of New Brunsvdck. You will 
have seventy-five miles of ahnost unbroken wilderness 
to pass through.” 

‘ ‘ Seventy-five miles of wilderness ! magnificent ! where s 
my rifle, mother? I haven’t seen it for an age.” 

“Don’t be so impetuous, John. Tliis journey through 
the wilderness will be anything but magnificent. You will 
meet many dangers by the way and will encounter many 
hardships.” 

“But, mother, what care I for the perils of the way. 
Look at that powerful member,” stretching out his large, 
muscular arm. 


3iirvAMiCTri. 


53 


Don’t trust too much in that, John. Your strong^ 
arm is a good weapon, but you may meet something yet 
that is more than a match for it.” 

“Possibly,” said Jolm, with a sceptical air, “but when 
am I to start, mother?” 

“To-morrow.” • 

‘ ‘ To-morrow I that is fine. Well ! I must bestir myself,” 
said he, rising. 

“Not to-night, my dear. You ’ve nothing to do at pres- 
ent. Arrangements are made. Be quiet, John. We 
may not sit thus together again for a long wliile.” 

“True, mother,” said he, reseating himself. “But how 
did you happen to think of Miramichi?” he asked, after 
a pause. 

“That is what I must explain to you. Yom* uncle Ed- 
ward has committed an act of imprudence which he fancies 
your father will not forgive him. He has left us without 
giving any information of his destination. Wc hope you 
will find him in New Brunswick, and this is your errand. 
You must seek him and bring him back to us.” . 

John had been absent at the time of Mr. Somers’s depar- 
ture, and, without making definite inquiries, supposed liim 
to be away on ordinary business. 

After his first surprise at his mother’s announcement, he 
was quite silent for a few moments. 

Then he said, firmly, “ If he 'is there, I will find him.” 

IMrs. Lansdowne did not explain to him the nature of her 
brother’s offence, but simply communicated her earnest de- 
sire for his return. Then going together to the library they 


54 


MIRAMICHI. 


consulted the map of Maine and New Branswick. ISIr. 
Lansdowne joined them, — the route was fiilly discussed, 
and John retired to dream of the delights of a life untram- 
melled by college, or city walls. 


CHAPTER Vn. 


A JOUENEY THKOUGH THE ^VILDERNESS. 

Two days after the arrival of Mr. Norton at the Dubois 
House, on the banks of the Miramichi, John LansdoVne, 
on a brilliant September morning, started- on his memor- 
able journey to that region. 

He was up betimes, and made his appearance at the 
stables just as James, the stout little coachman, was com- 
pleting Cajsar’s elaborate toilet. 

Cgesar was a noble-looking, black animal, whose strength 
and capacity for endurance had been well tested. Tliis 
morning he was in high spirits and looked good for months 
of rough-and-tumble service. 

“ Here’s yer rifle. Mister John. I put it in trim for ye 
yesterday. I s’pose ye ’ll be a squintin’ reound sharp for 
bears and wolves and other livin’ wild beasts when ye git 
inter the woods.” 

“ Certainly, James. I expect to set the savage old mon- 
sters scattering in every direction.” 

“Well, but lookeout. Mister John and keep number one 
eout o’ fire and water and seth.” 

“Trust me for doing that, James.” 


56 


MIRiOIICm. 


After many affectionate counsels and adieus from his par- 
ents, John, mounted on the gallant Ctesar, with his rifle 
and portmanteau, posted on at a rapid rate, soon leaving 
the city far behind. 

The position of one who sits confidently upon the back 
of a brave and spirited horse, is surely enviable. The mas- 
tery of a creature of such strength and capacity — whose 
neck is clothed with thunder — the glory of whose nostrils 
is terrible, gives to the rider a sense of freedom and power 
not often felt amidst the common conditions of life. No 
wonder that the Bedouin of the desert, crafty, cringing, 
abject in cities, when he mounts his Arab steed and is off 
to the burning sands, becomes dignified and courteous. 
Liberty and power are liis. They elevate him for the time 
in the scale of existence. 

John was a superb rider. From liis first trial, he had sat 
on horseback, firm and kingly. 

He and Caesar apparently indulged in common emotions 
on this morning of their departure from home. They did 
not it is true ‘ ‘ smell the battle afar off, the thunder of the 
captains and the shouting,” but they smelt the wilderness, the 
wild, the fresh, the free, and they said ha ! ha ! And so 
they sped on their long journey. 

The young man made a partial acquaintance with lum- 
bering operations at Bangor ; had his sublime ideas of the 
nobility of the aborigines of the country somewhat discom- 
posed by the experience of a day spent in the Indian settle- 
ment at Oldtowm ; found a decent shelter at Mattawamkeao* 

o 

Point, and, at last, with an exultant bound of heart, struck 
into the forest. 


MIRAJUCHI. 


57 


The only road through this solitary domain was the rough 
path made by lumbermen, in hauling supplies to the various 
camps, scattered’at intervals through the dense wilderness, 
extending seventy-five miles, from Mattawamkeag Point to 
the British boundary. 

Here Nature was found in magnificent wildness and 
disarray, her hair quite unkempt. Great pines, shooting 
up immense distances in the sky skirted the path and flung 
their green-gray, trailing mosses abroad on the breeze; 
crowds of fir, spruce, hemlock, and cedar trees stood 
waving aloft their rich, dark banners ; clusters of tall, 
wliite birches, scattered here and there, relieved and bright- 
ened the sombre evergreen depths, and the maple with its 
affluent foliage crowned each swell of the densely covered 
land. Here and there, a scarlet tree or bush shot out its 
sanguine hue, betokening the maturity of the season and 
the near approach of autumn’s latest splendor. Big bould- 
ers of granite, overlaid with lichens, were profusely orna- 
mented with crimson creepers. Everything appeared in 
splendid and wasteful confusion. There were huge trees 
with branches partially torn away ; others, with split trunks 
leaning in slow death against their fellows ; others, pros- 
trate on the ground ; and around and among all, grew brakes 
and ferns and parasitic vmes ; and nodded purple, red, and 
golden berries. 

The brown squirrels ran up and down the trees and 
over the tangled rubbish, chirping merrily; a few late 
lingering birds sang little jerky notes of music, and the 
woodpecker made loud tapping sounds which echoed like 


58 


MIRAMICHI. 


the strokes of the woodman’s axe. The air was rich and 
balmy, — spiced with cedar, pine, and hemlock, and a thou- 
sand unknowTi odors. 

The path through this wild of forest was rude and diffi- 
cult, but the travellers held on their way unffinchingly, — 
the horse with unfaltering courage and patience, and his 
rider with unceasing wonder and delight. 

At noon they came to a halt, just where the sun looked 
dovTi golden and cheery on a little dancing rivulet that 
babbled by the wayside. Here Ccesar received his oats, 
for which his master had made room in his portmanteau, 
at the expense, somewhat, of his own convenience. The 
young man partook of a hearty lunch and resigned himself 
to dreams of life under the greenwood tree. 

After an hour’s rest, again in the saddle and on — on, 
through recmTing scenes of wildness, waste, and beauty. 
Just as the stars began to glint forth and the traveller and 
horse felt willing perhaps to confess to a little weariness, 
they saw the light of the expected cabin fire in the distance. 
Ca3sar gave a low whinny of approval ai^^ hastened on. 

Two or three red-shu’ted, long-bearded men gave them 
a rude welcome. They blanketed and fed Caesar, and pick- 
eted him under a low shed built of logs. 

John, as hungry as a famished bear, drank a deep draught 
of a black concoction called tea, wliich his friends here 
presented to him, ate a powerful piece of dark bread, inter- 
larded with fried pork, drew up with the others around the 
fire, and, in reply to their curious questionings, gave them 
the latest news from the outside world. 


MIRAMICHI. 


59 


For this information he was rewarded by the strange 
and stirring adventures of wilderness life they related diu-- 
ing the quickly flitting evening hours. 

They told of the scores who went into the forest in the 
early part of winter, not to return until late in the spring ; 
of snow-storms and packs of wolves ; of herds of deer and 
moose ; they related thrilling stories of men crushed by 
falling trees, or jammed between logs in the streams, to- 
gether witli incidents of the long winter evenings, usually 
spent by them m story telling and card playing. Thus, he 
became acquainted with the routine of camp life. 

'Wearied at last with the unaccustomed fatigues of the 
day, he wrapped himself in his cloak, placed his port- 
manteau under his head for a pillow and floated off to dream- 
land, under the impression that this gypsying sort of life, 
was just the one of all others he should most like to live. 

The following^ morning, the path of our traveller struck 
through a broad reach of the melancholy, weird desolation, 
called a burnt district. He rode out, suddenly, from the 
dewy greenness and balm-breathing atmosphere of the un- 
blighted forest, into sunshine that poured down in torrents 
from the sky, falling on charred, shining shafts and stumps 
of trees, and a brilliant carpet of fireweed. 

It is nearly Impossible to give one who has not seen 
something of the kind, an adequate impression of the pe- 
culiar appearance of such a region. The strange, grotesque- 
looking stems, of every imaginable shape, left standing like 
a company of black dwarfs and giants scattered over the 
land, some of them surmounted with ebony crowns ; some. 


60 


MR^ymcHi. 


•with heads covered like olden warriors, with jetty helmets ; 
some with brawny, long arms stretched over the pathway 
as if to seize the passer by, and all with feet planted, 
seemingly in deep and flaming fire. How quicldy nature 
goes about repairing her desolations ! So great in tliis 
case is her haste to cover up the black, unseemly surface of 
the earth, that, from the strange resemblance of the weed 
■with which she clothes it to the fiery elements, it would 
seem as if she had not yet been able to thrust the raging 
glow out of her fancy , and so its tj'pe has crept again over 
the blighted spot. 

John rode on over the glowing ground, the black mon- 
sters grimacing and scowling at him as he passed. What 
a nice eerie place this would be thought he for witches, 
■wizards, and all Satan’s gentry, of every shape and hue, to 
hold their high revels in. And he actually began to shout 
the ■witches song — 

“ Black spirits and white, 

Red spirits and gray.” 

At which adjuration, Caesar, doubtless kno’wing who 
were called upon, pricked up liis ears and started on a full 
run, probably not -wishing to find himself in such company 
just at that time. 

An establishment similar to the one that had sheltered 
him the night previous, proffered its entertainment at the 
close of our adventurer’s second day. The third day in 
the wilderness was signalized by an incident, wliich excited 
such triumphant emotions as to cause it to be long remem- 


MIRAimCHI. 


61 


bered. About an hour subsequent to liis noon halt, as he 
and Csesar were proeeeding along at a moderate pace, he 
heard a rustling, crackling noise on the right side of the 
path and suddenly a deer, frightened and panting, flew 
across the road, turned for a moment an almost human, 
despau’ing look toward him, plunged into the tangled un- 
der-growth on the left and was gone from sight. John 
drew his reins instantly, bringing his horse to a^ead stand, 
loosened his rifle from his shoulder and after examining it 
closely, remained quiet. Idis patience was not taxed by 
long waiting. Witliin the space of two minutes, there was 
another sharp crunching and crackling of dry boughs, when 
a wolf, large, gray, and fierce, sprang into the path from 
the same Opening, following on the trail of the deer. He 
had nearly crossed the narrow road in hot pursuit and was 
about springing into the thicket beyond, when an acciden- 
tal turn of his head brought our hero suddenly to his atten 
tion. He stopped, as if struck by a spell of enchantment. 

Whiz ! the ball flew. The very instant it struck, the 
bloodthirsty monster feU dead. When John reached the 
spot, there was scarcely the quiver of a limb, so well had 
the work of death been accomplished. Yet the wolfish face 
grinned still a savage, horrible defiance. 

“ Here, Cajsar,” he exclaimed, in a boastful tone, “do 
you know that this old fellow lying here, won’t get the 
drink out of the veins of that dainty creature he was so 
thirsty for ? No ! nor ever cheat any sweet little Eed 
Kiding Hood into thinking him her grandmother ? This is 
the last of him. Did n’t I do the neat thing, C«sar ? ” 


62 


MiRAsncm. 


Cffisar threw his head on one side, mth an air of admi- 
ration and gave a low whinny, that betokened a state of 
intense satisfaction at the whole transaction. 

It may appear frivolous to those who have read with 
unwavering credulity the olden tales of the prowess and 
achievements of knights errant in the days of chivalry, 
that one should stop to relate such a commonplace, inci- 
dent as the shooting of a wolf, and above all, that the 
hero of this narrative, should betray, even to his horse, 
such a decided emotion of self admiration for having per- 
formed the feat. Such a trifle would not indeed be worth 
mentioning in company with the marvellous deeds and 
mysterious sorceries of the old romaunt, but* this being a 
true story, the hero young, and this the first game of the 
kind he has yet brought down, it must be excused. 

After a critical examination of his victim, our traveller 
mounted liis horse and proceeded on liis journey, much 
gratified at his afternoon’s work, and inwardly resolving how 
he would make the eyes of James and Aunt Esther stand 
out, while listening to the account of it he should give them, 
on his return home. 

In about seventeen days after his departure from P., 
John safely accomplished his journey. Amidst the subse- 
quent hardships, rough fare and toils of that journey, 
which, in truth, thirty-five years ago, were things not to be 
laughed at, he had a constant satisfaction in the recollection 
of having, with one keen shot, killed a large, fierce, gray 


CHAPTER Vm. 




A FUNERAL. 

The day following the call made by IVIr. Norton on 
JMicah ISIummychog, the last-named personage came to 
Mr. Dubois’s house and Adele happening to open the out- 
side door, just as he hove m sight, he called out, “ Miss 
Ady, do ye know where that individooal that ye brought 
to my heouse yisterday, is ? ” 

‘ ‘ You mean the missionary ? ” said Adele. 

“ Well, yis, I spose so ; where is he?” 

‘ ‘ He is engaged with a sick gentleman we have here. 
He has taken the place of Aunt Patty,' who is tired out and 
has gone to rest.” 

“ Well, that piece of flesh, what’s called McNab, has 
the greatest fakkilty of gittin’ tired eout when there ’s any 
work reound, that ever I see. Any heow, she ’s got to sth* 
herself this time. But I want to see the minister, 
neow.” 

“ Yes, I will speak to him. But I shall not call Aunt 
Patty. She is tked now. - I can take care of the sick 
gentleman. But what has happened, Micah ? ” 

“ Well, there’s goin’ to be a funeral. I can’t jestly tell 


64 


MIRA^MICHI. 


ye abeout it neow. Ye can ax yer sir, when he comes in,’* 
said INIicah, reluctant to go into particulars which he knew 
would shock Adele. 

“Well, Captin,” said Micah, when Mr. Norton made 
his appearance at the door, here ’s a reg’lar wind-fall for ye. 
Here ’s an Irishman over here, as is dead as a door nail. 
He ’s goin’ to be buried to-night, ’beout sunset, and I dun 
no but what I can git a chance for ye to hold forth a spell 
in the grove, jest afore they put liim under greound.” 

‘ ‘ Dead ! the poor man dead ! indeed ! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Norton. 

“ Yis. He was shot right tlu’ough his heart, and I 
hope a. swingin ’ cuss ’01 come on him that put the ball 
tlireough, tew.” 

“Why, hoAv was it, Mr. Micah?” said Mr. Norton 
earnestly. 

‘ ‘ Well, ycou jest tell me fust wether yeou ’ll say prayers, 
or somethin’ or ’nother over the poor chap’s reeliks.” 

“ Certainly, I wOl, INIr. Micah.” 

“Well, ye see, Pat McGrath lived back here, half a 
mile or so, an’ he ’s got lots o’ cousins an’ friends ’ut live 
all along on tliis ’ere river, more or less, till ye git to 
Chartham, that's sitooated to the mouth. Well, these fel- 
jers has been in the habit o’ gittin’ together and goin’ deown 
river and hirin’ once in a spell, some sort of old, cranky 
craft and goin’ skylarking reound to Eastport and Portland. 
Arter a while they ’d cum back and smuggle in a cargo o’ 
sometliin or ’nother from the States, and sheirk the dooties. 
Well, beout a week ago, there was a confounded old crit- 


MUAIuICIII. 


Go 


tur ’ut lives half way from here to Chartham, that informed 
on’ em. So they jcs’ collected together — ’beout twenty 
fellers — and mobbed him. And the old cuss fired into ’em 
and killed this ’ere man. So ncow they ’ve brought his 
body hum, and his wife’s a poor shiftless thing, and she’s 
been a hollerin’ and screechin’ ever sence she heerd of it.” 

“ Poor woman ! ” said IVIr. Norton, greatly shocked. 

“ 'Well, I might as well teU yer the whole on ’t,” said 
ISIicah, scratching his head. “ Yer see, he was one o’ these 
Catholics, tliis Pat was, and the fellers went to the priest 
(he lives deown river, little better ’n ten mile from here) in 
course to git him to dew what’s to be done to the funeral, 
and the tarnal old heathen would n’t dew it. He sed Pat 
had gone agin the law o’ the kentry, and he would n’t hev 
anything to do ‘ beout it. So the fellers brought the body 
along, and I swear, Pat McGrath shall hev a decent funeral, 
any way.” 

“ Where is the funeral to be?” asked Mr. Norton, after 
listening attentively to the account Micah had given him. 

“ O ! deown here ’n the grove. The body ’s to my heouse, 
and Maggie his wife’s there a screechin’. The grave- 
yard’s close here, and so they didn’t carry Inm hum.” 

I’ll, go down and see this poor Maggie,” said aL’. Norton. 

‘ ‘ Don’t, for the Lord’s sake. I’m eenermost crazy ncow. 
The heouse is jammed full o’ folks, and there ain’t nothin, 
ready. You jes’ wait here, till I git tilings in shape and 
I ’U cum arter ye.” 

J^Iicah then departed to complete his arrangements, and 
iVIr. Norton returned to his post, in the sick-room. 

6 * 


66 


MIRAanCHI. 


It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon, before a 
messenger came to inform him that the horn* of burial had 
arrived. 

A strange scene presented itself to liis view, as he ap- 
proached the grove. A motley company, composed of the 
settlers of every grade and condition for miles around, had 
collected there. Men, women, and children in various 
costume — the scarlet and crimson shirt, or tunic, carrying it 
high above all other fashions — were standing, or walking 
among the trees, conversing upon the event that had 
brought them together. 

As the missionary approached, the loud indignant voices 
subsided into a low murmur, and the people made way for 
him to reach the centre of the group. 

Here he found the coffin, placed upon a pile of boards, 
entirely uncovered to the light of day and to the inspection 
of the people, who had, each in turn, gazed with curious 
eyes upon the lifeless clay it enclosed. 

In the absence of Mrs. McNab, who was still sleeping 
away the effects of her late fatigues at the house of IMr. Du- 
bois, the women of the neighborhood had arrayed Patrick 
McGrath, very properly, in a clean shirt of liis accustomed 
wearing apparel, so arranging it that the folds of the red 
tunic could be lifted iu order to expose to those who came 
to look upon him the wound he had received. There he 
lay, the rade smuggler, turned gently upon his side, one 
cheek pressing the pillow. Death had effaced from liis 
couutenanee every trace of the stormy passions which 
raged in liis breast •when the fatal bullet struck him, and 
had sealed it with even a pleasant serenity. 


MIUAMlCm. 


07 


Not so with the compeers of liis race, who encircled the 
coffin. They scowled a fierce fury from beneath their 
bushy brows and muttered vows of vengeance. Tlia rays 
of the sun, now rapidly declining, shot into their angry 
faces, the evening breeze shook out their matted locks of 
hair. A peculiar glow was cast over thehr wild, Erin 
features, now gleaming with unholy passion. 

Mr. Norton bent for a few minutes over the coffin, while 
an expression of sorrow and deep commiseration overspread 
his countenance. Then he stepped upon a slight knoll of 
ground near by, raised himself to 'his full height and 
began to speak in a voice that rose above the crowd, clear, 
melodious, full and penetrating as the notes of a bugle. 
It thrilled on every ear and drew instant attention. 

“Friends, brethren, fellow-sinners, one of our number- 
has been suddenly struck down by the relentless hand of 
death, and we are here to pay the last honors to Iris mortal 
remains, — each and all to learn a solemn lesson while 
•standing at the mouth of the grave. Brethren, we are to 
learn anew from this occasion that death often comes to man 
with the suddenness of the lightning flash. One momerrt 
before your comrade was struck by the fatal bullet, his eye 
glowed as keenly and his right arm was as powerful as 
yours. The next moment he was prostrate on the grourrd, 
with no power to move a single limb of his body, or utter 
a single sigh, or breathe a single prayer. He was dead. 

“ I am ignorant whether he was prepared to make such a 
sudden transit from this world to that scene of judgment to 
wliich he has been summoned. You know, who were liis 


68 


MIRAJMICHI. 


friends and comrades, what his former course has been, 
and whether he was prepared to meet the Judge of all the 
earth. I know nothing of all this, but I fervent! j hope 
that at the last erring, awful moment, when he had just 
committed an act of transOTCssion against the laws of his 
country, he had in his heart, and did, offer up this prayer, 

‘ God be merciful to me, a sinner.’ We must leave him in 
the hands of the Almighty, who is both merciful and just. 
We cannot change his lot, but we have it in our power to 
profit by the curcumstances of his death. Beholding how 
suddenly he has been eut off, in the prime and strength of 
his days, we may learn that we too may be callecf at some 
unexpected moment, and that it behooves us to be found 
ever in the right path, so living, so acting, that we shall be 
ready, when death comes, to meet our Judge without fear 
and with the assurance that when we depart this life, tlwough 
the righteousness of Christ, we shall be introduced into a 
better and nobler country. I beg of you earnestly, my 
dear bretlu-en, in order to secure tliis happy result, to turn^ 
immediately from your sins, repenting of them without 
delay, and apply to Christ whose blood can alone wash 
them away. Take the Bible, this precious gift from Heav- 
en, for your counsellor and guide, follow its instructions, 
and you will be safe and happy, whether in life or in death. 

“ hly brethren, I will say but one word more ; that word 
I earnestly implore you to listen to. This book from God 
says, vengeance is mine ; I will repay. I fear it is in your 
hearts to seek revenge upon him who is the author of your 
comrade’s death. I beseech you not to do it. God knows 


MIRAMICHI. 


69 


where the wrong is, in this case, and He, the great Avenger, 
will not suffer it to go unpunished. Sooner or later He 
brings every wicked and wrong-doer to a just reward. Leave 
all in His righteous hands, and stain not your souls with 
blood and violence. Let us seek the divine blessino^.” 

O 

]Mi'. Norton then offered a short and simple prayer, im- 
ploring the forgiveness of sins, and blessings upon Patrick’s 
wife, his companions, and the community. 

Maggie, who had wailed herself into perfect exhaustion 
and almost stupor, sat gazing fixedly in liis face ; the rest 
seemed hushed as by a spell, and did not begin to move 
until some moments after his voice ceased. 

Then the tongues were loosened, and amid the ebbs and 
flows of murmuring sound, the coflhi was covered, placed 
upon a bier and borne to the grave, followed by the 
crowd. 

“And shure,” said a poor Irishwoman to her crony, 'as 
they trudged along behind, “the praste’s voice sounded all 
the while like a great blessed angel, a blowin’ through a 
silver trumpet. Shure, he’s a saint, he is.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


ADtLE DUBOIS. 

The Dubois family, though widely separated by social 
rank and worldly possessions from the population around 
them, had yet, to a certain degree, mingled freely with the 
people. Originating in France, they possessed the pecul- 
iar national faculty of readily adapting tliemselves to the 
manners and customs of races foreign to their own. 

It is impossible to forget in the early history of the North 
American colonies, what facility the Freneh displayed, in 
contrast with the English, in attaining communication with 
the children of the forest, in acquiiing and retaining their 
confidence, in taking on their rude and uncultivated modes 
of life, and in shaping even their superstitions to their own 
selfish purposes. 

Of all the foreigners who have attempted to demonstrate 
to the world, the social and political problems of America, 
who has investigated with such insight, and developed so 
truly our manners and customs and the spirit and genius of 
our government as Tocqueville ? 

hlr. Dubois, though possessing a conservative power that 
prevented him from descending to the low type of character 


MIRAMICHL 


71 


and the lax principles of the country, yet never made any 
other than the most quiet assertion of superiority. It was 
impossible indeed for him to hold business connections with 
the rough settlers without mingling freely with them. But 
he never assumed the air of a master. He frequently en- 
gaged with them in bold, adventurous exploits, the accom- 
plisliment of which did not involve an infringement of law ; 
sometimes he put hand and shoulder to the hard labors they 
endured, and he was ever ready with his sympathy and aid 
in redressing tlieir ^ievances. Though often shocked at 
their lawless and profane customs, he yet recognized in 
many of them traits of generosity and nobleness. 

Without a particle of aggressiveness in his disposition, 
he had never undertaken actively the work of reform, yet 
his example of uprightness and integrity had made an im- 
pression upon the community. The people treated him with 
unvarying respect and confidence, partly from a sense of 
his real superiority, and partly, perhaps, from the very lack 
of self-assertion on his side. Consequently without having 
made the least effort to do so, he exercised an autocratic 
power among them. 

Mrs. Dubois visited the women of the place frequently, 
particularly when the men were absent in their lumbering, 
or fishing operations, conversing with them freely, bearing 
patiently their superstitions and ignorance, aiding them lib- 
erally in temporal things, and sometimes mingling kindly 
words of counsel with her gifts. 

Adele’s intercourse with the settlers was in an altogether 
different style. Her manner from earliest childhood, when 


72 


MIRAIVllCHI. 


she first began to run about from one cottage to another, 
had been free, frank, and imperious. Wliether it was, that 
having sniffed from babyhood the fresh forest air of the new 
world, its breath had inspired her mth a careless indepen- 
dence not shared by her parents, or, whether the haughty 
blood that had flowed far back in the veins of ancestors, 
after coursing quietly along the generations, had in her be- 
come stimulated into new activity, certain it is, she had al- 
ways the bearing of one having authority and the art of 
governing seemed natural to her. It was strange, therefore, 
that she should have been such a universal favorite in the 
neighborhood. But so it was. Those who habitually set 
public law at defiance, came readily under the control of her 
youthful sway. 

Possessing a full share of the irrepressible activity of 
childhood, she enacted the part of lady of the Manor, 
assuming prerogatives that even her mother did not think 
of exercising. 

When about eleven summers old, she opened one after- 
noon the door of an Irish cabin and received at once a cor- 
dial, noisy welcome from its inmates. She did not howeve, 
make an immediate response, for she had begun taking 'a 
minute survey of the not over-nice premises. At lengthr 
she deigned to speak, 

“Bridget Malone, are you not ashamed to have such a 
disorderly house as this ? Why don’t you sweep the floor 
and put things in place ? ” 

“ Och ! hinny, and how can I swape the floor without a 
brum?” said Bridget, looking up in some dismay. 


MIKAMICHI. 


73 


‘ ‘ Did n’t my father order James to give you a broom 
whenever you want one? Here Pat,” said she, to a ragged 
urchin about her own age, who was tumbling about over 
the floor with a little dirty-faced baby, “here, take this 
jack-knife and go down to the river by Mrs. Campbell’s 
new house and cut some hemlock boughs. Be quick, and 
bring them back as fast as you can.” Pat started at once. 

Adele then deliberately took off her bonnet and shawl, 
rolled them up into as small a package as she could make, 
and placed .them on the nearest approximation to a clean 
spot that could be found. Then she stooped down, took 
the baby from the floor and handed liim to his mother. 

“Here, Bridget, take Johnny, wash his face and put 
liim on a clean dress. I know he has another dress and 
it ought to be clean.” 

“Yes. He ’s got one you gave him, IVIiss Ady, but it 
aint clane at all . Shure it ’s time to wash P m wanting, it is . ” 

‘ ‘ Now, don’t tell me, Bridget, that you have not time to 
wash your children’s clothes and keep them decent. You 
need not spend so many hours smoking your pipe over the 
ashes.” ^ 

“You would n’t deprive a poor cratur of all the comfort 
she has in the world, would ye, hinny?” 

‘ ‘ You ought to take comfort in keeping your house and 
children clean, Bridget.” 

In the meanwhile, Bridget had washed Johnny’s face, 
and there being no clean dress ready for the little feUow, 
Adele said, ‘ ‘ Come, Bridget, put on a kettle of water, 
pick up your clothes, and do your washing.” 

7 


74 


MIEMIICHI. 


“ Slmre, and I will, if ye say so, Miss Ady.” 

The poor shiftless thing having placed the baby on the 
floor again, began to stir about and make ready. 

Adele sat poking and turning over the chubby little 
Johnny with her foot. 

At last, Pat appeared with a moderate quantity of 
hemlock boughs, which Adele told him to throw upon the 
floor, — then to hand her the knife and sit down by her 
side and learn to make a broom. She selected, clipped, 
and laid together the boughs, until she had made quite a 
pile ; sent Pat for a strong piece of twine and an old broom 
handle and then secured the boughs firmly upon it. 

“ Now Pat,” she said, “ here is a nice, new jack-knife. 
K you will promise me that you will cut boughs and make 
your mother two new brooms, just like this, every week, 
the knife shall be yours.” 

Pat, with eyes that stood out an unmentionable distance, 
and mouth stretched from ear to ear, promised, and Adele 
proceeded vigorously to sweep the apartment. In the 
course of half an hour, the room wore a wholly different 
aspect. ' 

“ And who tould the like of ye, how to make a brum 
like that, liinny ? ” said Bridget, looking on in admiration 
of her sldll. 

“Nobody told me. I saw Aunt Patty McNab do it 
once. You see it is easy to do. Now, Bridget, remember. 
Have your house clean after this, or I will not come to see 
you.” 

“Yes, shure. I’ll have them blessed brums as long’s 
there ’s a tree grows.” 


mRAMICIII. 


75 


And true it was, that Adele’s threat not to visit her 
cabin proved such a salutary terror to poor Bridget, that 
there was a perceptible improvement in her domestic 
arrangements ever after. 

As Adele grew older, the ascendency she had obtained 
in her obscure empire daily increased. At twelve, she 
was sent to a convent at Halifax, where she remained 
three years. At the end of that period, she I’eturned to 
Miramichi, and resumed at once her regal sceptre. The 
sway she held over the people was really one of love, 
grounded on a recognition of her superiority. Circulating 
among them freely, she became thoroughly acquainted 
with their habits and modes of living, and she was ever 
ready to aid them, under their outward wants and them 
deeper heart troubles. A community must have some one 
to look up to, whether conscious of the want or not. 
Hero-worship is natural to the human soul, and the miscel- 
laneous group of women and children scattered over the 
settlement, found in Adele a strong, joyous, self-relying 
spirit, able to help them out of their difficulties, who could 
cheer them when down-hearted, and spur them up when 
getting discouraged or inefficient. 

But, added to tliis were the charms of her youthful 
beauty, wliich even the humblest felt, without perhaps 
knowing it, and an air of authority that swept away all 
opposition, and held, at times, even Aunt Patty McNab at 
arms’ length. Yes, it must be confessed that the young 
lady was in the habit of queening it over the people ; but 
they were perfectly willing to have it so, and both loved 
and were proud of their little despot. 


76 


MIRAIillCHI. 


In the mean time, the Dubois family were living a life 
within a life, to the locale of wliich the reader must now be 
introduced. 

It has been said that the outward aspect of their dwell- 
ing was respectable, and in that regard was not greatly at 
variance, except in size, with the surrounding habitations. 
Within, however, there were apartments furnished and 
adorned in such a manner as to betoken the character and 
tastes of the inmates. 

In the second story, directly over the spacious dining- 
room already described, there was a long apartment with 
two windows reaching nearly to the floor. It was carpeted 
with crimson and black Brussels, contained two sofas of 
French workmanship, made in a heavy, though rich style, 
covered with cloth also of crimson and black ; with chairs 
fasliioned and carved to match the couches, and flnished in 
the same material. A quaint-looking piano stood in one 
comer of the room. In the centre was a Chinese lacquered 
table on which stood a lamp in bronze, the bowl of which 
was supported by various broadly smiling, grotesque crea- 
tures, belonging to a genus known only in the domain of 
fable. 

On the evening following the burial of poor Pat Mc- 
Grath, Mrs. Dubois sat in this apartment, engaged in 
embroidering a fancy piece of dress for Adele. That 
young lady was reclining upon a sofa, and was looking 
earnestly at a painting of the iMadonna, a copy from some 
old master, hanging nearly opposite to her. It was now 
bathed in the yellow moonlight, which heightened the won- 


MIRAMICIII. 


77 


derfully saintly expression in the countenances of the holy 
mother and child. 

“ See ! ma bonne mere, the blessed Marie looks down on 
us with a sweet smile to-night.” 

“ She always looks kindly upon us, chh'e, when we try 
to do right,” said Mrs. Dubois, smiling. “ Doubtless you 
have tried to be good to-day and she approves your effort.” 

“ hfow, just tell me, ma chere mere, how she would re- 
gard me to-night if I had committed one wicked deed 
to-day.” 

“ Tliis same INIarie looks sad and wistful sometimes, my 
Adele.” 

“ True. But not particularly at such times. It depends 
on which side the light strikes the picture, whether she looks 
sad or smiling. Just that, and nothing more. Now the 
moonlight gives her a smiling expression. And please 
listen, chere mere, I have heard that there is, somewhere, 
a Madonna, into whose countenance the old painter en- 
deavored to throw an air of profbundest repose. He suc- 
ceeded. I have heard that that picture has a strange 
power to soothe. Gazing upon it the spirit grows calm 
and the voice unconsciously sinks into a whisper. Our 
priests would tell the eommon people that it is a miraculous 
influence exerted upon them by the Virgin herself, where- 
as it is only the effect produced by the exquisite skill of the 
artist. Eh, bien ! our church is full of superstitions.” 

“ We will talk no more of it, ma fille. You do not love 
the holy Marie as you ought, I fear.” 

“ Love her I indeed I do. She is the most blest and 
1 * 


78 


MIRAMICHI. 


honored among women, — ^tlie mother of the Saviour. But 
why should we pray to her, when Jesus is the only inter- 
eessor for our sins with the Father? Why, ma chere 
mere ? ” 

^^Helas ! ma Jille. You learned to slight the intercession 
of the holy saints whde you were at the convent. It is 
strange. I thought I could trust you there.” 

“ Do not think it the fault of the sisters, chere mere. 
They did their duty. This v^ay of tliinking came to me. I 
did not seek it, indeed.” 

“How did it come to you, ma 'pauwe Jille ? ” 

“ I will tell you. The first time I went into the convent 
parlor. Sister Adrienne, thinking to amuse me, took me 
around the room and showed me its ciu-iosities. But I was 
filled with an infinite disgust. I did not distinctly know 
then wh^ I was so sickened, but I understand it all now.” 

“ What did you see, AdMe?” 

“ Eh ! those horrid relics of saints, — those teeth, those 
bones, those locks of hair in the cabinet. Then that awful 
skeleton of sister Agnes, who founded the convent and was 
the first Abbess, covered with wax and preserved in a 
crystal case ! I thought I was in some charnel-house. I 
could hardly breathe. Do you like such parlor ornaments 
as those, ma chire mere?” 

“ Not quite.” 

“What do we want of the dry bones of the saints, 
when we have memcirs of their precious lives? They 
would themselves spurn the superstition that consecrates 
mere earthly dust. It nauseates me to think of it.” 


MIKAMIClir. 


79 


“ Procedez, ma 

“ My friend from the States, Mabel Barton, came to 
the convent, the day I arrived. As our studies were the 
same, and as, at first, we were both homesick, the sisters 
permitted us to be together much of the time. Ph I lien ! 
I read her ))ooks, her Bible, and so light dawned. She 
used to pray to the Father, through the Kedeemer. I 
liked that way best. But ma mere^ om* cathedral service is 
sublime. There is nothing like tlmt. Now you will for- 
give me. The arches, the altar, the incense, the glorious 
surging waves of music, — these raised me and Mabel, like- 
wise, up to the lofty third heaven. How high, how holy 
we felt, when we worshipped there. Because I like the 
cathedral, you wdll forgive me for all I said before, — will 
you not, ma chert mere ? ” 

Turning her head suddenly towards her mother, Adele 
saw her eyes filled with tears. 

Eh! ma chert merty 'pardonnez moi. I have pained 
you.” And she rose and flung her arms, passionately, 
around her mother’s neck. * 

‘ ‘ Pauvre jille ! ” said the mother, returning her embrace 
mournfully, ” you will wander away from the church, — 
our holy church. It would not have been thus, had we 
remained in sunny Picardy. Eh ! ouhlier je ne puis.” 

‘ ‘ What is it, chert mere,” said Adele, ‘ ‘ that you cannot 
forget ? There is something I have long wished to know. 
What was there, before you came here to live? "VYhy do 
you sometimes sit and look so thoughtfid, so sad and wish- 
ful ? TeU me, — tell me, that I may comfort you.” 


80 


MIEA3IICHI. 


“ I will tell you all, Adele, yes, — all. It is time for 
you to know, but — not to-night — not to-night.” 

“ To-morrow then, ma mere ? ” 

‘ ‘ Yes. Yes — to-morrow.” 


‘ CHAPTER X. 

PICAEDY. 

“ Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him : but 
weep sore for him that goeth away : for he shall return no 
more, nor see his native country.” The prophet, who 
wrote these words, well 'knew the exile’s grief. He was 
himself an exile. He thought of Jerusalem, the city of 
his home, his love, and his heart was near to breaking. 
He hung his harp upon the willow ; he sat down by the 
streams of Babylon and wept. 

The terrible malady of homesickness, — it has eaten out 
the vigor and beauty of many a life. The soul, alien to 
all around, forlorn amid the most enchanting scenes, filled 
with ceaseless longing for a renewal of past delights, can 
never find a remedy, until it is transplanted back to its 
native clime. 

Nor was the prophet singular in his experience of the 
woes of exile. We have heard of the lofty-spirited Dante, 
wandering from city to city, carrying with him, in banish- 
ment, irrepressible and unsatisfied yearnings for his beloved 
Florence ; we have seen the Greek Islander, borne a cap- 
tive from home, sighing, in vain, for the dash and roar of 
his familiar, seas ; we have seen the Switzer, transplanted 


82 


MIRAillCHI. 


to milder climes and more radiant skies, yet longing for 
the stem mountain forms, the breezes and echoes of his 
native land. Ah ! who does not remember, with a shud- 
der, the despau'ing thoughts, choking tears, and days of 
silent misery that clouded his own boyhood, and perhaps 
even some days of his early manhood ? 

Ouhlier je ne puis. Poor lady ! she had been homesick 
twenty years. 

On the afternoon following the conversation recorded in 
the last chapter, Mrs. Dubois was ready to unfold to Adele 
the story of her past life. They were sitting in the parlor. 
The golden glory of the September sun gave an intense 
hue to the crimson furniture, lighted up the face of the 
Madonna with a new radiance, and touched the ivory keys 
of the piano with a fresh polish. Adele’s eyes were fixed 
with eager expectation upon her mother. 

“ You know, ma chere, ” IMrs. Dubois began, “ we once 
lived in France. But you cannot know, I tmst you never 
may, what it cost us to leave our beautiful Picardy, — what 
we have suffered in remaining here, exiled in this rude 
country. Yet then it seemed our best course. Indeed, 
we thought there was no other path for us so good as this. 
lAYe were yoimg, and did not enough consider, perhaps, 
what such a change in our life involved. I must tell you, 
my Adele, how it came about. 

In the province of Picardy not many miles from the city 
of Amiens, there was a fine, but not large estate, border- 
ing on the River Somme. A long avenue of poplars led 
from the main road up a gentle slope until it opened upon 


MIRA3IICHI. 


83 


a broad, green plateau of grass, studded with giant trees, 
the growth of centuries. Here and there were trim little 
flower-beds, laid out in a variety of fantastic shapes, with 
stiflT, glossy, green, closely-clipped borders of box. And, 
what was my childish admiration and delight, there was a 
fountain that poured itself out in oozing, dripping drops 
from the flowing hair and finger tips of a marble Venus, 
just rising in the immense basin and wringing out her locks. 
Then the park, — there was none more beautiful, more 
stately, extending far back to the banks of the Somme, 
where birds sat on every bough and the nightingale seemed 
to pour its very heart away, singing so thrillingly and so 
long. I hear the liquid notes now, my Adele, so tender, 
so sweet ! At the end of the avenue of poplars of which 
I spoke stood the chateau, with the trim flower-beds in 
front. It was built of brown stone, not much ornamented 
externally, with four round towers, one in each corner. 
Though not as old as some of those castles, it had been 
reared several centuries before, by a Count de Rossillon, 
who owned the estate and lived on it. 

In that chateau, I first saw the light of day, and there I 
spent my happy childliood and youth. 

The estate of Rossillon had been bequeathed by the will 
of my gi-andfather, to his two sons. The elder, the present 
Count de Rossillon, inherited the larger portion ; my father, 
the younger son, the smaller share. 

My father was a Bonapartist, and at the time of his 
marriage held a high rank in the army. During his ab- 
sence from the country, my mother resided at the chateau 
with her brother-in-law, the Count. 


84 


mRAftncni. 


One day in June, news arrived of the sudden death of 
my father. It was communicated to my mother, by the 
messenger who brought it, without precaution. That 
night, one hour after, I was ushered into an orphaned 
existence and my mother took her departure from the 
world. Tliink of me Adele, thus thrown a waif upon the 
shore of life. Yet, though born in the shadow of a great 
sorrow, sunlight struck across my path. 

The faithful bonne, who had taken care of my mother in 
her infancy and had never left her, now took charge 
of me. She watched over me faithfully and filled up my 
childhood with affectionate attention and innocent pastime. 
My uncle, the Count, who had never been married, loved, 
petted, and indulged me in every wish. AYhen I grew old 
enough, he secured a governess well qualified to teach and 
discipline me. Under her care, with the aid of masters 
in Latin, music, and drawing, from Amiens, I went 
through the course of instruction considered necessary for 
young ladies at that time. 

I was at your age my Adele when I first met your father. 
He was not the bronzed and careworn man you see him now. 
Ah ! no. He was young and gay, with a falcon glance and 
black wreathing locks hanging over his white, smooth 
brow. His father was of noble blood, and sympathized 
warmly with the dethroned Bourbons. He was no lover 
of the great Consul. The political troubles in France had 
operated in ways greatly to impoverish his house. 

He owned and occupied only the remnant of what had 
been a large estate, adjoining that of the Count de Rbs- 
sillon. 


MIEAMICHI. 


85 


AVhile acquiring his education, your father, except at 
occasional intervals, was six years from home, and it so 
happened that I never met him in my childhood. Indeed, 
the families were not on terms of intimacy. On his return 
from the University, 1 first saw him. Eh! him! It is the 
same old story that you have heard and ^^ad of, in your 
books, my Adele. We became “^quainted, I wUl not stop 
now, to tell you how, and soon learned to love each other. 
Time passed on, and at last your father sought the consent 
of fuy uncle, to our marriage. But he put aside the prop- 
osition with anger and scorn. He thought that Claude 
Duboi® neither distinguished nor rich enough to match 
}iw niece. In his heart, he had reserved me for some con- 
spicuous position in the great circle at Paris, while I had 
given myself to an obscure youth in Picardy. 

Your father was too honorable to ask me to marry him 
without the consent of the Count, and too proud to take me 
in his poverty. So one. day, after his stormy intefview 
witli my uncle, he came to me and said he was going away 
to endeavor to get fame, or wealth, to bestow upon me and 
make himself more worthy in the eyes of the Count de 
Rossillon. Yet he wished to release me from any feeling 
of obligation to him, as, he said, I was toQ young and 
had too little acquaintance Vith life and society to know 
fully my own heart. It would not be right, he thought, 
to bind me to himself by any promise. I told himmy affec- 
tion for him would never change, but acquiesced in his 
arrangements with a sad and foreboding heart. In a few 
weeks, he embarked for India. 

8 


86 


MIRAMICHI. 


Then my uncle roused himself from the inertia of his 
quiet habits and made arrangements for a journey through 
France and Italy, which he said I was to take with liim. 

I received the announcement with indifference, being 
wholly occupied with grief at the bitter separation from 
your father. The change however proved salutary, and, 
in a week after our departure, I felt hope once more dawn- 
ing in my heart. 

The country through which we travelled was sunny and 
beautiful, veined with sparkling streams, shadowed by for- 
ests, studded with the olive and midberry, anO. -^vith vines 
bearing the luscious grape for the vintage. The 
change of scene and the daily renewal of objects of inter 
est and novelty, combined with the elasticity of youth, 
brought back some degree of my former buoyancy and 
gayety. ]\Iy uncle was so evidently delighted with tlie 
return of my old cheerfulness, and exerted himself so much 
to heighten it in every way, that I knew he sincerely loved 
me, and was doing what he really thought would in the end 
contribute to my happiness. He judged that my affec- 
tion for your father was a transient, youthful dream, and 
would soon be forgotten ; he fancied, no doubt, I ivas even 
then beginning to wake up from it. He wished to pre- 
vent me from forming an early and what he considered an 
imprudent Carriage, which I might one day regret, un- 
availingly. 

And it provM to be all right, my Adele. Your father 
and I were both young, and the course the Count de Eos- 
sillon took ivith us, was a good though severe test of our 


MIRA3IICHI. 


87 


affection. In the meanwhile, I was secretly sustained by 
the hope that your father’s efforts would be crowned with 
success, and that, after a few years, he would return and my 
uncle, having found, that nothing could draw me from my 
attachment to him, would out of liis own love for me and 
consideration for my happiness, at last consent to our 
union. 

W e crossed the Alps and went into Italy. Here a new 
world was opened to me, — a world of beauty and art. It 
bestowed upon me many hours of exquisite enjoyment. 
The Count travelled with his own carriage and servants, 
and we lingered wherever I felt a desire to prolong my 
observations. He purchased a collection of pictures, stat- 
ues, and other gems and curiosities of art. Among the rest, 
tlie Madonna there, my Adele, which he presented to me, 
because I so much liked it. But I must not linger now. 
On our return to France, we spent a month at Paris, and 
there, though too young to be introduced into society, I met 
in private many distinguished and fashionable people, who 
were friends of the Count. 

We were absent from the chateau one year. It was 
pleasant to get back to the dear old place, where I had 
spent such a happy cliildliood, the scene too of so many 
precious interviews with your beloved father. We re- 
turned again to our former life of quiet ease, enlivened at 
frequent intervals by the visits of guests from abroad and 
by those of friends and acquaintances among the neigh- 
boring nobility. Though I received no tidings from your 
father, a secret hope still sustained me. A few times only. 


88 


MIKAMICHI. 


during the first three years of his absence, did I lose my 
cheerfulness. Those were, when some lover pressed his 
suit and I knew that in repelling it, I was upsetting some 
cherished scheme of my uncle. But I will do him the jus- 
tice to say that he bore it patiently, and, only at long 
intervals, gave vent to his vexation and disappointment. 

It was when my hope concerning your father’s return 
began to fail, and anxiety respecting his fate began to be 
indulged in its stead, that my spirits gave way. At the 
close of the fourth year of his absence, my peace was 
wholly gone and my days were spent in the restless agony 
of suspense. My health was rapidly failing, and my uncle 
who knew the cause of my prostration, instead of consult- 
ing a physician, in the kindness of his heart, took me to 
Paris. But the gayeties to which I was there introduced 
were distasteful to me. I grew every moment more sad. 
Just when my uncle was in despair, I was introduced 
accidentally to the Countess de Morny, a lovely lady, who 
had lost her husband and three ehildren, and had passed 
through much sorrow. 

Gradually, she drew me to her heart and I told her all 
my grief. She dealt very tenderly with me, my Adele. 
She did not seek to cheer me by inspiring fresh hopes of 
your father’s return. No. She told me, I might never 
be Claude Dubois’s happy bride, but that I might be the 
blessed bride of Jesus. In short, she led me gently into 
the consolations of our Holy Church. Under her influ- 
ence and guidance I came into a state of sweet resignation 
to the divine will, — a peaceful rest indeed, after the ter- 


MIR.VMICHI. 


89 


rible alternations of suspense and despair I had suffered. 
But, my Adele, it was only by constant prayers to the 
blessed Marie that my soul was kept from lapsing into its 
former state of dreadful unrest. Ma chere Adele, you 
know not what you do, when you speak slightingly of om* 
Holy Church. I should then have died, had I not found 
rest in my prayers to the blessed mother. Now, you are 
young and gay, but the world is full of sorrow. It may 
overtake you as it did me. Then you will need a hope, a 
consolation, a refuge. * There is no peace like that found 
at the foot of the cross, imploring the intercession of the 
compassionate, loving Marie. Do not wander away from 
the sweet eyes of the mother of Christ, ma fille.” 

Here IMrs. Dubois ceased speaking, and turned a tear- 
ful, affectionate gaze upon her daughter. Adele’s eyes, 
that had been fixed upon her mother with earnest, absorbed 
attention, filled with tears, instantly. 

‘ ‘ Ma chere mere, I would not make you unhappy. I 
will try not to give you pain. Please go on and tell me 
all.” 

‘ ‘ Eh f bien i ma chere, my uncle was pleased to see me 
becoming more peaceful. Finding I was not attracted by 
the pleasures of the gay city, he proposed our return to 
the chateau, and begged the Countess de Morny to accom- 
pany us. At my urgent request, she consented. 

On the day of our arrival, the Countess weary with the 
journey, having gone to her own apartments, I went to 
stroll in the beautiful, beloved park. It was June, — that 
month so full of leaves, flowers, birds, and balmy summer 
8 * * 


90 


MIKAMICHI. 


winds. I sat at the foot of an old beech-tree, leaning my 
head against its huge trunk, listening to the flow of the 
river, indulging in dangerous reverie, — dangerous cer- 
tainly to my peace of mind. Suddenly, I Avas startled by 
the sound of footsteps. Before I could collect my scat- 
tered senses, your father stood before me. ‘ Marie^ he 
said, ‘ Marie.^ 

For one moment, I met his earnest, questioning gaze, 
and then rushed into his open arms. In short, he had 
come back from India, not a rich man, but Avith a compe- 
tence, and Avhen he found I had not forgotten him, but had 
clung to him sti\l, through those Aveary years of absence, 
he resolved to see the Count de Rosillon and renew the 
request he had made four years previous. 

IMy uncle, though much surprised at his sudden appear- 
ance, received him politely, if not cordially. When your 
father had laid before him a simple statement of our case, 
he replied frankly. 

‘ I am convinced,’ he said, ‘ by what I have observed 
during your absence, M. Dubois, that the arrangement 
you propose, is the only one, Avhich Avill secure Marie’s 
happiness. I Avill say, however, honestly, that it is far 
enough from what I designed for her. But the manliness 
and honorable feeling you have manifested in the affair, 
make me more AAnlling to resign her to you than I should 
otherwise have been, as I cannot but hope that, although 
deprived of the advantages of wealth and station, she will 
yet have the faithful affection of a true and noble heart I 
This was enough for us both and more than we expected. 


MIRAMICin. 


91 


“But a new difficulty arose. Upon observing the 
troubled and uncertain state of affairs in France, your 
father became convinced that his chances to secure the 
ends he had in view, would be greater in the new world. 
After a brief period of deliberation, he fixed upon a plan 
of going to British America, and purchasing there a 
large tract of land, thus founding an estate, the value of 
which he anticipated would increase with the growth of the 
country. 

“To this arrangement, the Count was strenuously 
opposed. There was a pretty embowered residence, a 
short distance from the chateau, on the portion of the 
estate I had inherited from my father. There he wished 
us to live. In short, he wished to retain us near him- 
self. But your father, with the enterprise and enthusiasm 
of youth, persisted in his purpose. At last, my uncle gave 
a reluctant consent and purchased my share of the estate 
of Rossillon. 

“ Not to my surprise, but to my great gratification, soon 
after this, the gentle -Countess de Momy consented to 
become the Countess de Rossillon. 

“ Surrounded by a joyous group of friends, one bright 
September morning, in the chapel of St. Marie, they were 
married, and then the priest united me to your father. The 
sweet mother looked down from above the altar and seemed 
to give us a smiling blessing. We were very happy, my 
Adele. 

In a few days we set sail for New Brunswick. We 
arrived at St. John in October and there spent the follow- 


92 




ing winter. In the. spring, your father explored this re- 
gion and made a large purchase of land here. At that 
time it seemed a deshable investment. But you see how 
it is, my Adele. All has resulted strangely different from 
what we anticipated. And somehow it has always been 
difficult to change our home. From time to time, we have 
thought of it, — obstacles have arisen and — we are still 
here.” 

“ But where is the Count de Rossillon, mother? It is 
twenty years, is it not, since you left France? Does he 
yet live ? ” 

‘ ^Ah ! ma chere^ we know not. After our departure 
from France we received frequent letters from him and the 
dear Countess until five years since, when the letters 
ceased. They constantly urged our return to Rossillon. 
You remember well the thousand pretty toys and gifts they 
showered upon your childhood ? ” 

“ Ah I yes, mother, I remember. Arid you have not 
heal'd a word from them for five years ! ” 

“Not a word.” 

“ Do you wish to go back to France, mother? ” 

“ It is the only wish of my heart that is unsatisfied. I 
am full of ceaseless yearnings for the beautiful home of my 
youth. Would that we could return there. But it may 
not be. France is in a state of turmoil. I know not what 
fate has befallen either my uncle, or his estate. He may 
be' dead. Or, if living, he may no longer be the proprie 
tor of beautiful Rossillon. We cannot learn how it is.” 

“ Cannot my father go to France and ascertain what has 


MIRAMICHI. 


93 


happened there? Perhaps, mother, he might find a home 
for you once more in your dear Picardy.” 

“ He is thinking of it even now, ma Jille.” 

“Is he, mother? Then be comforted. You will see 
that sweet home once more, I fee^assured.” 

She rose and flung her arms around ]\Irs. Dubois, ex- 
claiming, “ Dear, beautiful mother ! ” 

An hour later, Adele might have been seen, wandering 
about in IVIicah’s grove, her mind and heart overflowing 
with new, strange thoughts and emotions. She had just 
received the first full revelation of the early life of her 
parents. Her knowledge of it before had been merely 
vague and confused. Now a new world was opened for 
her active fancy to revel in, and fresh fountains of sympa- 
thy to pour forth, for those whom she so fondly loved. 
She sighed as she recalled that yearning, wistful look upon 
her mother’s face, in those hours when her thoughts seemed 
far away from the present scene, and grieved that her gen- 
tle spirit should so long have suffered the exile’s woe. 

For weeks after, she continually fell into reverie. In 
her day dreams she wandered through the saloons and cor- 
rfdors of tlie old chateau, where her mother had spent so 
many years, chequered with sunshine and shade. She ram- 
bled over the park and cooled her fevered head and hands 
in the water that dripped from the tresses of tlie marble 
Aphrodite. Fancy took her over the route of foreign 
travel, her mother had pursued with the Count de Rossil- 
lon. She longed herself to visit those regions of clascsi 
and romantic interest. During the long, golden, Septem- 


94 


mRAMICHI. 


ber afternoons, she spent hours, in the Madonna room, 
questioning her mother anew respecting the scenes and 
events of her past life, and listening eagerly to her replies. 
The young examine distant objects as through a prism. 
Adele’s imagination invested these scenes and events with 
rainbow splendors and revelled in the wealth and beauty, 
she had herself partially created. The new world thus 
opened to her was infinitely superior to the one in which 
she held her commonplace, humdium existence. She 
never wearied of her mother’s reminiscences of the past. 
Each fresh description, each recalled item of that history, 
added to the extent and the charms of her new world. 

JMrs. Dubois herself felt a degree of pleasure in thus liv- 
ing over again her former life with one, who entered art- 
lessly and enthusiastically into its joys and sorrows. ' She 
also experienced an infinite relief in pouring out to her 
sympathizing child the regrets and longings which had, for 
so^long a period, been closely pent in her o^vn breast. 
]\Iother and daughter were drawn nearer to each other day 
by day, and those hours of sweet communion were among 
the purest, the happiest of their lives. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Nearly two weeks had elapsed since the night when 
IMr. Dubois had brought Air. Brown, in a sick and fainting 
condition, into his house.* That gentleman had lain very 
ill ever since. The disease was typhoid fever ; the patient 
was in a critical state, and nothing now but the utmost care 
and quiet could save his life. 

‘ ‘ What directions have you left for to-day. Dr. Wright ? ” 
said Adele to the physician, as he came one morning from 
‘ ^le sick-roofti. 

“ AlcNab has the programme, ” he replied. 

“ Will please repeat it to me, sir? Airs. AIcNab has 
been called elsev,^,.^^ charge of the gen- 

tleman to-day. ” 

Airs. Dubois looked at Aovie -with some surprise. She 
made no remark, however, as Dr. VT^-^ht immediately began 
to give the directions for his patient to tVqt young lady. 

When he had taken leave and closed the Ooor, Adele 
turned to her mother and said, ‘ ‘ I have suspected for 
several days that things were not going on properly in 
that sick-room. Last night, I became convinced of it. 
I cannot stop to tell you about it now, mamma, ‘as there 


96 


MIRAMICHI. 


is no time to lose with our invalid. But JSIrs. McNab 
must decamp. I have it all arranged, and I promise you 
I will not offend Aunt Patty, but will dismiss her peace- 
ably. Do trust her to me once, mamma. Please go 
now and tell her there is a message waiting for her in the 
dining-room. Stay with Mr. Brown just one half hour, 
and you shall have no more trouble to-day.” 

“ But, ma chere, you have no patience with Aunt Patty. 
I am afraid you will be too abrupt with her.” 

‘ ‘ Don’t fear, mamma, I promise you I will not outrage 
Aunt Patty. Please go.” 

“Ah ! well ! I will go,” said Mrs. Dubois. 

]\Irs. IMcNab soon made her appearance in the dining- 
room, and, with some degree of trepidation, inquired who 
wanted her there. 

“ Micah was here an hour ago,” replied AdMe, “and 
said Mrs. Campbell sent him here to ask you to come and 
help her. Four of her children are sick with the 
and she is nearly down herself, in consequence fatigue 
and watching. I did not speak to you the*^ ^ supposed 

you were sleeping. I told iSIicah ^ doubt you 

would come, as there are eno*^^' here to take care of the 
sick gentleman, and Mj*^ Campbell needs you so much.” 

“Weel, Miss Mrs. McNab, twitching vio- 

lently a Btr^y lock of her flaming hair and tucking it 
beneath her cap, “Idinna ken how you could tak’ upon 
yourself to send such a ward as that, when Mr. Brown is 
just on the creesis of his fever and not one of ye as knows 
how to tak’ care o’ him more than a nussin’ babe.” 


MIRA3IICHI. 


97 


“All ! indeed ! Aunt Patty,” said Adele, pretending to 
be offended, “do you say that my mother knows nothin^* 
about sickness, when you are aware she has carried my 
father tlirough two dangerous fevers and me through all 
the diseases of babyhood and childhood ? ” 

“That mon ’uU never get weel if I leave him noo, when 
I ’ve the run of the muddesons and directions. A stranjre 

O 

hand ’nil put everything wrang and he’ll dee, that’s a’.” 

“And if he does die,” said AdMe, “ you will not be 
responsible. You have done what you could for him and 
now you are called away. I am sure you will not permit 
INIrs. Campbell to suffer, when she gave you a comfortable 
home in her house all last winter.” 

“Weel, Mrs. Cawmmclls’ a gude woman enough and 
I’m sorry the bairns are sick. ‘ But what’s the measles to a 
fever like this, and the mon nigh dead noo?” Aunt 
Patty’s face flushed scarlet. 

“ Aunt Patty,” said Adele, very slowly and decidedly, 
“Mr. Brown is my father’s guest. We are accountable 
for his treatment, and not you. My mother and I are 
going to take charge of him now. I sent word to Mrs. 
Campbell that there was nothing to prevent you from coming 
to assist her. You have had your share of the fatigue and 
watching with our invalid. Now we are going to relieve 
you. ” There was something in Adele’s determined air, that 
convinced Mrs. McNab the time for her to yield had at 
lenjrth come, and that it was of no use for her to contest the 
field longer. Feeling sure of this, there were various rea- 
sons, occurring to her on the instant, that restrained her 
9 


98 


MIRiUIICm. 


from a further expression of her vexation. After a few 
moments of sullen silence, she rose and said — 

“ Weel ! I’ll go and put my things tegither, that’s in 
Mr. Brown’s room, and tell Mrs. Doobyce aboot the mud- 
desons and so on.” 

“That is not necessary,” said Adele ; “The Dr. has giv- 
en me directions about the medicines. Here is breakfast all 
ready for you, Aunt Patty. Sit down and eat it, while 
it is hot. I will go to the gentleman’s room and gather up 
what you have left there. Come, sit down now.” 

Adele placed a pot of hot cojSee and a plate of warm rolls 
upon the table. 

Mrs. McNab stood for a moment, much perplexed be- 
tween her impulse to go back to IMr. Brown’s room and 
unburden her mind to IMrs. Dubois, and the desire to par- 
take immediately of the tempting array upon the breakfast- 
table. Finally, her material wants gained the ascendency 
and she sat down very composedly to a discussion of the 
refreshments, while Adele, anticipating that result, hasten- 
ed up stairs to collect the remaining insignia of that worthy 
woman’s departing greatness. 

Mrs. Dubois, on going to Mr. Brown’s room, had found’ 
the atmosphere close and suffoeating, and that gentleman, 
tossing restlessly on the bed from side to side, talking to 
himself in a wild delirium. She left the door ajar and be- 
gan bathing his fevered head in cool water. This seemed 
to soothe him greatly and he sank back almost immediately 
into a deathlike slumber, in wliicli he lay when Adele en- 
tered the chamber. 


MIR.UIICHI. 


<)9 

Cautioned by her mother’s uplifted finger, she moved 
about noiselessly, until she had made up a large and mi^ 
cellaneous package of articles ; then descended quietly, in- 
wardly resolving that the “Nuss” as she called herself, 
should not for several weeks at least, revisit the scene of her 
late operations. 

IMrs. McNab was still pursuing her breakfast, and Adele 
sat down, with what patience she could command, to wait 
for the close. 

“You’ll be wanting some ain to watch to-night. Miss 
Ady,” said Aunt Patty. 

“ Yes, Mr. Norton will do that. He has offered many 
times to watch. He will be very kind and attentive to the 
invalid, I know.” 

“ I s’pose he ’ll do as weel as he knows hoo, but I ha vena 
much faith in a mon that sings profane sangs and ca ’s ’ em 
relegious heems, to a people that need the bread o’ life 
broken to ’em.” 

“Have you heard him sing, Aunt Patty? I did not 
know you had attended his meetings at the grove.” 

“I havena, surely. But when the windows were up, 
I heard him singin’ them jigs and reels, and I ex- 
pectin’ every minut to see the men, women, and bairns 
a dancin’.” 

“ They sit perfectly stOl, while he is singing,” said 
Adele, “ and listen as intently as if they heard an angel. 
His voice is sometimes like a flute, sometimes like a 
trumpet. Did you hear the words he sang?” 

“ The wards I yes ! them’s the warst of a I ” said IVIrs. 


100 


MIRAinCHI. 


McNab, expanding her nostrils with a snort of contempt. 
* They bear na resemblance whatever to the Psalms o’ 
David. I should as soon think o’ singing the sangs o’ 
Robby Burns at a relegious service as them blasphemous 
things.” 

“ Oh ! Aunt Patty, you are wrong. He sings beautiful 
hymns, and he tells these people just what they need. I 
hope they will listen to him and reform.” 

‘ ‘ Weel he ’s a very light way o ’ carryin himself, for a 
minister o ’ the gospel, I must say.” 

“He is cheerful, to be sure, and sympathizes with the 
people, and helps them in their daily labor sometimes, if 
that is what' you refer to. I am sure that is right, and I 
lilvC him for it, ” said Adele. 

“ Weel ! I see he ’s a’ in a’ with you, noo, ” said Mrs. 
McNab, at last rising from the table. “ I ’ll go up noo and 
tak’ leave o’ the patient.” 

“ No, no, ” said AdHe. “He is sleeping. He must 
not be disturbed on any account. His life may depend 
ujoon tliis slumber remaining unbroken.” ‘ 

She rose involuntarily and placed herself against the 
door leading to the stairs. 

IVIrs. McNab grew red with anger, at being thus foiled. 
Turning aside to liide her vexation, she waddled across 
the room, took her bonnet and shawl from a peg she had 
appropriated to her special use, and proceeded to invest 
herself for her departm-e. 

“Weel ! I s’pose ye’ll expect me to come when ye 
send for me,” said she, tmming round in the doorway with 


MIRAWICm. 


101 


a grotesque distortion of her face intended for an ii’onical 
smile. 

“ That is just as you please, Aunt Patty. We shall be 
happy to see you whenever you choose to come. Good- 
by.” 

“Good by,” said IVIrs. McNab in a quacking, quaver- 
ing, half resentful tone, as she closed the door beliind her. 

Adele went immediately to the adjoining pantry, called 
Bess, a tidy looldng mulatto, gave her directions for the 
morning work and then went up stairs to relieve her moth- 
er. Mrs. Dubois made signs to her that she preferred not to 
resign her post- But Adele silently insisted she should do 
so. 

After her mother had left the room, she placed herself 
near the bedside that she might observe the countenance 
and the breathing of the invalid. His face was pale as that 
of death. His breath came and went almost imperceptibly. 
The physician had excluded every ray of sunshine and a 
hush, like that of the grave, reigned in the aj^artment. In 
her intercourse with the people of the settlement, Adele 
had often witnessed extreme illness and several dying scenes ; 
but she had never before felt herself so oppressed and awe- 
struck as now. As she sat there alone with the apparently 
dying man, she felt that a silent, yet mighty struggle was 
going on between the forces of life and death. She feared 
death would obtain the victory. By a terrible fascination, 
her eyes became fixed on the ghastly face over which she 
fancied she could perceive, more and more distinctly, shad- 
ows cast by the hand of the destroyer. Every moment she 
9 * 


102 


MIK.V3IICHI. 


thought of recalling her mother, but feared that the slightest 
jarring movement of the atmosphere might stop at once that 
feeble respiration. So she remained, watching terror strick- 
en, waiting for the last, absolute silence, — the immovable 
repose. 

Suddenly, she heard a long, deep-drawn sigh. She 
saw the head of the sufferer turn gently on one side, 
pressing the pillow. A color — the faintest in the world, 
stole over the features. The countenance gradually settled 
into a calm, natural expression. The respiration became 
stronger and more regular. In a few moments, he slept 
as softly as a little child. 

Adele’s heart gave one bound, and then for a moment 
stood stdl. She uttered a sigh of relief, but sank back in 
her chau’, wearied by excess of emotion. She felt instinc- 
tively, that the crisis had been safely passed, that there was 
hope for the invalid. 

Then, for a long time, her mind was occupied with 
thoughts respecting death and the beyond. 

Suddenly a. shadow, flitting across the curtained win- 
dow, recalled her to the present scene. 

Ah ! what a mercy, she thought, that Aunt Patty did 
not kill liim, before I discovered her beautiful mode of 
nursing sick people. No wonder lie has been crazed all 
this time, with those strange manoeu\Tes of hers ! 

On the previous night, Adele had been the last of the 
family to retire. Stealing noiselessly past the door of the 
sick-room, which was somewhat ajar, her steps were ar- 
rested by hearing Aunt Patty, whose voice was pitched on 


MirvAMICHl. 


103 


a very high key, singing some old Scotch song. Think- 
ing tliis rather a strange method of composing the nervous 
system of a delirious patient, she stood and listened. 
Up, far up, into the loftiest regions of sound, went Aunt 
Patty’s cracked and quavering voice, and then it came 
down with a heavy, precipitous fall into a loud grumble 
and tumble below. She repeated again and again, in a 
most hilarious tone, the words — 

“Let us go, lassie, go. 

To the braes of Balquhither, - 
Where the blaebarries grow, 

’Mang the bonnie Highland heather.” 

In the midst of this, Adele heard a deep groan. Then 
she heard the invalid say in a feeble, deprecating tone — 

‘ ‘ Ah ! why do you mock me ? Am I not miserable 
enough?” 

Mrs. McNab stopped a moment, then replied in a sharp 
voice, “ Mockin’ ye ! indeed, it ’s na such thing. If ye had 
an atom o’ moosic in ye, ye wad ken at ance, its a sweet 
Scotch sang I’m singin’ to ye. I ’ve sung mony a bann to 
sleep wi’ it.” 

There was no reply to this remark. All was quiet for 
a moment, when Adele, fancying she heard the clinking of 
a spoon against the side of a tumbler, leaned forward a 
little and looked through the aperture made by the partially 
opened door. The nurse was sitting by the fire, in her 
huge headgear, wrapped in a shawl and carefully stirring, 
what seemed, by the odor exhaled, to be whiskey. Her 


104 


WIRAMICHI. 


face was very red and her eyes wide open, staring at the 
coals. 

Tlie sufferer uttered some words, which Adele could 
not distinguish, in an excited voice. 

“ I tell ye, there isna ony hope for ye,” said Mrs. Mc- 
Nab, who, for some reason, not apparent, seemed to be 
greatly irritated by whatever remarks her patient made. 

‘ ‘ There isna ony hope for thum that hasna been elect- 
ed. Ye might talk an’ pray a’ yer life and ’twould do ye 
na gude. I dinna ken where you ’ve been a’ yer life, not to ' 
ken that afore. With a’ yer furbelowed claithes and jew- 
elled watch and trinkets, ye dinna ken much aboot the 
gospel. And then this new preacher a’ tellin’ the people 
they can be saved ony minut they choose to gie up their 
hearts to the Lord ! Its a’ tegither false. I was taught in 
the Kirk o’ Scotland, that a mon might pray and pray a’ 
his days, and then he wadna be sure o’ bein’ saved. 
That ’s the blessed doctrine I was taught. If ye are to be 
saved, ye will be. There noo, go to sleep. ^ I’ll read the 
ward o’ God to ye.” 

Alas ! for the venerable church of old Scotia, had she 
many such exponents of her doctrine as ]\Irs. hlcNab. 

Ilavmg thus relieved her mind, the nurse swallowed the 
contents of the tumbler. She then rose, drew a chair 
towards a table, on which stood a shaded lamp and took 
from thence a Bible ; but finding her eyesight rather dim, 
withdrew to a cot in one corner of the room, threw herself 
down and was soon sleeping, and snoring prodigiously. 

Adele, who had, during the enactment of this scene, 


MIRAJIICHI. 


105 


been prevented from rushing in and deposing Mrs. jMcNab 
at once, only by a fear of exciting the patient to a degree 
of fren2y, stole in quietly, bathed his head with some per- 
fumed water, smoothed his pillow and seated herself, near 
the fire, where she remained untd morning. 

Mr. Brown slept only during the briefest intervals and 
was turning restlessly and talking incoherently all night. 

Soon after day dawn. Aunt Patty began to bestir her- 
self, but before she had observed her presence, Adele had 
escaped to her own room. Soon, hearing Micah’s voice, 
she went to the kitchen. She found his message from 
Mrs. Campbell, just the excuse she needed to enable her to 
dispose of Mrs. McNab. She had become quite con- 
vinced that whatever good qualities that worthy woman 
might possess as a nurse, her unfortunate proclivities to- 
wards the whiskey bottle, united with her rigid theological 
tenets, rendered it rather unsafe to trust her longer with a 
patient, whose case required the most delicate care and 
attention. ' 

The queer, old clock in the dining-room struck one. 
Adele heard it. She was still watching. Mr. Brown stiU 
slept that quiet sleep. Just then, Mrs. Dubois entered, 
took her daughter’s hand, *led her to the door, and 
whispered — 

“ Now, take some food and go to rest. I wdl not 
leave him.” Adele obeyed. 


CHAPTER XH. 


A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 

Mr. Bro'SVN remained in a peaceful slumber during the 
afternoon. Mrs. Dubois aroused him occasionally, in order 
to moisten liis parched lips, ^nd with her husband’s aid and 
IMr. Norton’s to change his position in the bed. At such 
times he opened his eyes, gazed at them inquiringly, feebly 
assented to their arrangements, then sank away into sleep 
again. 

The members of the family felt a peculiar interest in 
the stranger. Mr. Dubois had described him, as a man 
of intelligence, refined and elegant in his deportment and 
tastes. He had noticed in liim, an air of melancholy, 
which even ludicrous events on the journey had 'dissi- 
pated, but for- the moment. The wild words he had 
uttered on the night of liis arrival, revealed some deep dis- 
quiet of mind. Away from home, hovering between life 
and death, and thrown on the tender mercies of strangers, 
IMrs. Dubois was filled with compassion and solicitude in 
his behalf. 

Having confidence in IVIrs. McNab’s skill as a nurse, 
she had not suspected that her partiality for a hot dose at 


MIRAMICm. 


107 


night, would interfere with her faithfulness to her charge. 
Not having communicated with Adele, she did not yet 
know why it had been deemed important to dispose of her 
so summarily, and she secretly wondered how it had been 
accomplished with so little ado. 'VVlien infonned, she ap- 
proved Adele’s decisive action. 

]Mr. 'Norton had fully shared the interest felt by the 
family in the stranger, and was happy to relieve JMrs. Du- 
bois in the evening and to remain by his bedside during the 
night. Since liis first interview with Mr. Brown, on the 
day of Ills arrival, he had felt that, in accordance with the 
vows by which he had bound himself to the great Master, 
the unfortunate stranger had a claim on liim, which he re- 
solved to fulfil at the earliest moment possible. He had 
had no opportunity as yet, of executing his purpose, Mrs. 
INIcNab havmg guarded the door of the sick-room like a 
lioness watcliing her cubs. ^Vhen she had by chance per- 
mitted him to enter, he had found her patient wandering 
in mind and entirely incapable of coherent conversation. 

Meantime, he had prayed earnestly for his recovery and 
secretly felicitated himself with the hope of leading him to 
a rock of refuge, — a tower of defence, which would secure 
him from sin and sorrow. 

INIr. Brown continued to sleep so peacefully diu'ing the 
night, that ]\Ir. Norton, whose hopes for his recovery liad 
been increasing every hour, was not surprised at the dawn 
of day to perceive his eyes open, examining the objects in 
the room, with the air of a person just awakened from a 
bewildering dream. 


108 


MIRAMICHI. 


He gazed euriously at the heavy, carved bureau of dark 
wood, at the grotesque little table, covered with vials and 
cups, at the cabinet filled with specimens of foreign skill 
and art, at the Yenetian carpet, and at last, his eyes re- 
mained fixed upon a black crucifix, placed in the centre of 
the mantle. He uttered a deep sigh. 

Mr. Norton, convinced that he had fully collected his 
scattered thoughts and become aware of the realities of his 
situation, stepped gently forward from liis station belfind 
the bed and taking Mr. Brown’s hand, said, in a cheerful 
tone, “ How do you find yourself, my dear sir? ” 

After a momentary surprise, Mr. Brown replied — 
“Better, I think, sir, better.” 

“ Yes sir. You are better. I thank God for it. And 
also for this hospitable roof and the kind care these people 
have taken of you in your illness. The Lord’s angel must 
have guided your steps to this house, and mine also.” 

“ Tills house, sir ! whose is it? ” 

“ It belongs to Mr. Dubois.” 

‘ ‘ Ah ! I recollect. I came here with him and have 
been HI several days. And the country is — ” 

“ Miramiclii,” said Mr.’ Norton. “ A desperate region 
su’. A land where the darkness may be feltJ’' 

Just then a ray of red, brnming sunshine shot into the 
room. The good man modified his remark, exclaiming, 
“ Morally, sir, morally.” 

Observing a cloud of anxiety stealing over Mr. Brown’s 
face, he went on. 

“ Now, my dear sir, let me tell you — you have been 


MIRAMICHI. 


109 


very ill for two weeks. The danger in your case is now 
over, but you are extremely weak, and need,'for a time, the 
attention of the two lovely nurses, who watched over you 
yesterday and are ready to bestow kind care upon you again 
to-day. You must lay aside, for the present, all troubles 
of mind and estate, and devote yourself to getting well. 
When you are somewhat stronger, I have excellent things 
to tell you.” 

‘ ‘ Excellent things ! ” exclaimed Mr. Brown, excited- 
ly, — a flush overspreading his wan features. “Has the 
traitor been found ? ” Then with a profound sigh of disap- 
pointment, he uttered feebly — 

“ Ah I you do not know.” 

“I do not know what your particular trouble is, my 
dear sir, but I know of a way to relieve you of that, or 
any other burden that weighs on your spu’its. I will 
inform you when you get stronger. What you need 
now, is a cup of oatmeal gruel, mingled with a tea-spoon- 
ful of wine, which shall immediately be presented to you 
by the youthful queen of this mansion.” 

He turned to go and call Adele. But IMr. Brown 
motioned him to remain. 

“ Do you reside here, sir?” he asked, in accents indicat- 
ing great prostration and despondency. 

“No, sir. I arrived here only a few hours before your 

I am from the State of . You are also from that 

region, and I shall not leave you until I see you with your 
face set towards your native sod* Now, my dear sir, be 
quiet. Perhaps your life depends on it.” 

10 


110 


MIRAinCHI. 


“ My life is not worth a penny to anybody.” 

“It is worth ten thousand pounds and more to your 
friends. Be quiet, I say.” 

And Mr. Norton went out of the room, gently but deci- 
sively. Mr. Bro^vn’s eyes followed him as he closed the 
door. 

Already he felt the magnetic power of that good and 
sympatliizing heart, of that honest, upright soul, which 
inspired by heavenly love and zeal, cast rays of life and 
happiness wherever it moved. 

Moreover, he was too much prostrated in mind and body, 
vigorously to grasp the circumstances of his situation, 
whatever they might be. Pain and debility had dulled his 
faculties and the sharpness of his sorrow also. The good 
missionary’s cheery voice and heartfelt smUe soothed, for 
the time, his wounded sphit. It was as if he had taken a 
sip of Lethe and had come into the land in which it always 
seemeth afternoon. 

Soon Adele opened the door and approaching the table 
gently, placed upon it the gruel. When she turned her 
eyes full of sympathy and kindness upon him and inquired 
for his health, he started with a remembrance tlat gave 
him both pain and pleasure. She reminded him strangely 
of the being he loved more than any other on earth — his 
sister. He answered her question .confusedly. 

She then raised his head upon the pillow with one hand 
and presented the cup to his lips with the other. He drank 
its contents, mechanically. 

Adele proceeded noiselessly to arrange the somewhat dis- 


MIRAMICHI. 


Ill 


ordered room, and after placing a screen between it and the 
bed, raised- a window, through wliich the warm Septepa- 
ber atmosphere wandered in, indolently batliing his weary 
brow. As he felt its soft undulations on his face, and look- 
ing around the pleasant apartment observed the grace- 
ful motions of his youthful nurse, the scenes through 
which he had recently passed, appeared like those of an 
ugly nightmare, and floated away from his memory. The 
old flow of his life seemed to come back again and he gave 
himself up to pleasant dreams. 

IMr. Brown continued thenceforward to improve in 
health, though slowly. Mr. Norton slept on a cot in lus 
room every night and spent a part of every day with him,' 
assisting in liis toilet, conversing with him of the affairs, 
business and political, of their native State, and reading to 
him occasionally ifrom books furnished by IVIr. Dubois’s 
library. 

He informed Mr. Brown of his mission to this wild region 
of jMiramichi, and the motives that induced it. That gen- 
tleman admired the purity and singleness of purpose which 
had led this man, unfavored indeed by a careful classical cul- 
ture, bu! possessing many gifts and much practical knowl- 
edge, thus to sacrifice himself in this abyss of ignorance and 
sin. He was drawn to him daily by the magnetism which 
a strong, yet heroic and genial soul always exercises upon 
those who approach it. 

In a few days he had, without any effort of the good 
man and involuntarily on his own part, confided to him the * 
heavy weight that troubled his conscience. 


112 


MIE.iMICm. 


“ All !” said IVIr. Norton, his eyes full of profound sor- 
row, and probing the wound now laid open to the quick, 

‘ ‘ it was a terrible weakness to have yielded thus to the 
wiles of that artful foreigner. May Heaven forgive 
you ! ” 

Surprised and shocked at this reception of his confession, 
Mr. Brown, who had hoped for consolation or counsel 
from his sympathizing companion, felt cut to the heart. 
His countenance settled into an expression of utter de- 
spair. 

‘ ‘ lYhy have you sought so diligently to restore me to 
health, — to a disgraced and miserable existence? You 
must have known, from the delirous words of my illness, 
of which you have told me, that life would be a worthless 
thing to me. You should have permitted me the privilege 
of death,” said he bitterly. 

“ The privilege of death! ’’said IMr. Norton. “Don’t 
you know, my dear sir, that a man unprepared to live, is also 
unprepared to die? Every effort I have put forth dm*ing 
your illness has been for the purpose of saving you for a 
happy life here, and for a blissful immortality.” 

“A happy life here I For me, who have deeply offended 
and disgraced my friends and my pure and unstained 
ancestry I ” 

“It is true, in an hour of weakness and irresolution, 
you have sinned against your friends. But you have sin- 
ned all your life against a Being infinitely higher that 
earthly friends. Your conduct has disturbed family pride 
and honor, and thereby destroyed your peace. But, do 


MIRA3UCIH. 


.113 


you never think of your transgressions against God ? For 
a world, I would not have had you present yourself before 
His just tribunal, with your sins against Him unrepented 
of. Is there no other thought in your heart, than to escape 
the misery of the present?” 

Mr. Brown was silent. INIr. Norton continued. 

“It is utter weakness and cowardice, in order to escape 
present discomfort and wretchedness, to rush from this 
world into another, without knowing what we are to meet 
there.” 

A flush of resentment at these words covered the in- 
valid’s face. Just then Adele knocked on the door, and 
said a poor woman below wished to see Mr. Norton. 

He rose instantly, went towards Mr. Brown, and tak- 
ing his thin hand between his own and pressing it afiec- 
tionately, said, “Look back upon your past life, — look 
into your heart. Believe me, my dear sir, I am your 
friend. ” 

Then he went to obey the summons, and Mr. Brown 
was left alone. 

The emotion of anger towards his benefactor soon passed 
away. He had been trained early in life to religious truth, 
and he knew that Mr. Norton presented to him the stern 
requisitions of that truth, only in friendliness and love. 
The good man was absent several hours, and the time was 
employed, as well as the solitude of several subsequent 
days, by Mr. Brown, in looking into his heart and into 
his past life. He found there many tilings he had not 
even suspected. He saw clearly, that he had hitherto held 
. 10 * 


114 


JnRAmCHI. 


himself amenable only to the judgment of the world. Its 
standard of propriety, taste, honor, had been his. He had 
not looked higher. 

His friend Mr. Norton, on the contrary, held himself 
accountable to God’s tribunal. His whole conversation, 
conduct, and spirit, showed the ennobling effect which that 
sublime test of character had upon him. In fine, he per- 
ceived that the basis of his own character had been false 
and therefore frail. The superstructure he had raised 
upon it, had been fair and imposing to "the ‘world, but, 
when its strength came to be tried, it had given way and 
fallen. He felt that he had neglected liis true interests, 
and had been wholly indifferent to the just claims of the 
only Being, who could have sustained him in the hour of 
temp. iion. He saw his past errors, he moaned over 
them, but alas ! he considered it too late to repair them. 
His life, he believed to be irretrievably lost, and he 
wished only to commit himself to the mercy of God, and 
die. 

For a few days, he remained reserved and sunk in a 
deep melancholy. 

At length, Mr. Norton said to him, “ I trust you are not 
offended with me, my dear sir, for those plain words I ad- 
dressed to you the other day. Be assured that though 
stern, they were dictated by my friendship for you and my 
duty towards God.” 

“Offended! my good friend. O no. What you 
said, is true. But it is too late for me to know it. 
Through the merits of Cln-ist, I hope for the pardon of my 


MIEAJNUCni. 


115 


sins. I am willing to live and suffer, if it is His behest. 
But you perceive my power to act for the cause of truth 
is gone. JMy past has taken away all good influence from 
my futm*e course. AVho will accept my testimony now ? 
I have probably lost easte in my own circle, and have, 
doubtless, lost my power to influence it, even should I be 
received back to its ties. In society, I am a dishonored 
man. I cannot have the happiness of working for the 
truth, — for Christ. My power is destroyed.” 

‘ ‘ You are wrong,' entirely wrong, my dear sir. Have 
courage. Shall not that man walk erect and joyous before 
the whole world, whatever his past may have been, whose 
sins have been washed away in the blood of Christ and 
whose soul is inspired by a determination to abide by faith 
in Him forever? I say, yes. Do the work of God . He 
will take care of you. Live, with your eye fixed on Him, 
ready to obey His will, seeking His heavenly aid, and you 
can face the frowns of men, wLile serene peace fills your 
heart.” 

Thus cheered and strengthened from day to day, Mr. 
Brown gained gradually in health and hope. Especially 
did JVIr. Norton strive to invigorate liis faith. He justly 
thought, it was only a strong grasp on eternal realities, 
that could supply the place of those granite qualities of 
the soul, so la '‘.king in this lovable, fascinating young 


man. 


CHAPTER Xm. 


THE GROVE. 

In the meanwhile, three or four times during the week, 
Mr. Norton continued to hold meetings for the people in 
IVIicah’s Grove. 

There had been but little rain in the IVIiramichi region 
during the summer and autumn. In fact, none worthy of 
note had fallen for two months, except what came during 
the late equinoctial storm. The grass was parched with 
heat, the roads were ground to a fine dust, which a breath 
of wind drove, like clouds of smoke, into the burnmg air ; 
the forest leaves, which had been so recently stained with a 
marvellous beauty of brown, crimson and gold, became dim 
and slmi veiled; a slight touch snapped, with a sharp, 
crackling sound, the dried branches of the trees ; even the 
golden rod and the purple aster, those hardy children 
of autumn, began to hang then' heads with thu'st. All 
day long, the grasshopper and locust sent through the 
hot, panting ah', their shrill notes, stinging the ear with 
discord. The heaven above looked like a dome of brass, 
and a thin, filmy smoke gathered around the horizon. 

Even the rude settlers, with nerves toughened by hard- 
ship, unsusceptible of atmospheric changes, were oppressed 
by the long, desolating drought. 


MIRAJMICHI. 


117 


It was only when the shadows of afternoon began to 
lengthen and the sun’s rays to strike obliquely through the 
stately trees of the Grove, that they were able to gather 
•there and listen to the voice of the missionary. He had so 
far succeeded in his work, as to be able to draw the people 
together, from a considerable distance around, and their 
number increased daily. 

On the opposite bank of the river, half way up a slight 
eminence, stood a small stone chapel. Tasteful and elegant 
in its proportions, it presented a picturesque and attractive 
appearance. There, once on each Sunday, the service of 
the Church of England was read, together with, a brief dis- 
course by a clergyman of that order. 

BcKind the chapel, and near the top of the hill, was 
a large stone cottage surrounded by pretty grounds and 
with ample stable conveniences. It was the Eectory. 

The Chapel and Rectory had been biult and the cler- 
gyman was sustained, at a somewhat large cost, by the 
Estabhshment', for the purpose of enlightening and Chi*is- 
tianizing the population of the parish of . 

Unfortunately, the incumbent was not the self-sacrificing 
person needed to elevate such a community. Though 
ministering at tlie altar of God, he had no true religious 
feeling, no disinterested love for men. He was simply a 
man of the world, a hon vivant^ a horse jockey and sports- 
■man, who consoled himself in the summer and autumn 
for his exile in that barbarous region, by filling his house 
with provincial friends, who helped him while away the 
time in fishing, hunting, and racing. The winter months. 


118 


MIRAMICHI. 


he usually spent at Fredericton, and during that interval 
no service was held in the chapel. Of late, the few, who 
were in the habit of attending the formal worship there, 
had forsaken it for the more animating services held in the 
Grove. 

Not only the habitual church-goers, but the people of 
the parish at large, began to feel the magnetizing influence, 
and were drawn towards the same spot. For a week or 
more past, late in the afternoons on which the meetings 
were held, little skiffs might have been seen putting off 
from the opposite shore, freighted with men, women, and 
children, crossing over to hear the wonderful preachings 
of the missionary. 

"VVliat attracted them thither? Not surely the love of 
the truth. 

Most of them disliked it in their hearts, and had not even 
began to tliink of practising it in their lives. They were 
interested in the man. They were, in some sort, compel- 
led by the magical power he held over them, to listen to 
entreaties and counsels, similar to those to which they had 
often liitherto turned a deaf ear. 

]\Ir. Norton spent much of the time with them, going 
from house to house, partaking of their rude fare, sym- 
pathizing in their joys and sorrows, occasionally lending 
them a helping hand in their toils, and aiding them some- 
times by his ingenuity and skill as an artisan. They 
found in him a hearty, genial, and unselfish friend. Hence 
when he appeared among them at the Grove, their personal 
interest in him secured a certain degree of order and deco- 
run, and caused them to listen to him respectfully. 


mRAMICHI. 


119 


Even beyond this, he held a power over them, by means 
of his natural and persuasive eloquence, enlivened by varied 
and graphic illustrations, drawn from objects within their 
ken, and by the wonderful intonations of his powerful and 
harmonious voice. He began his work by presenting to 
them the love of Christ and the winning promises of the 
gospel. 

Tlus was his favorite mode of reaching the heart. 

. On most of these occasions, Adele went to the Grove. 
It varied her monotonous life. The strange, motley crowd 
gathered under the magnificent trees, sitting on the ground, 
or standing in groups beneath the tall arches made by the 
overlapping boughs ; the level rays of the declining sun, 
bringing out, in broad relief, their grotesque varieties of 
costume ; the gradual creepLag on of the sobering twilight ; 
the alternating expressions of emotions visible on the 
countenances of the listeners, made the scene strikmg to 
her observing eye. 

Another burning, dusty day had culminated. It was 
nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. Mr. Norton was lying 
upon a lounge in Mr. Brown’s apartment. Both gentle- 
men appeared to be in a meditative mood. The silence 
was only interrupted by the unusual sound of an occasional 
sigh from the missionary. 

‘ ‘ Why I friend Norton ; ” at length exclaimed Mr. Bro^vn, 
“ have you really lost your cheerfulness, at last?” 

“ Yes, ” replied Mr. Norton, slowly. “ I must confess 
that I am weUnigh discouraged respecting the reformation 
of this people. Here, I have been preaching to them these 


120 


MIRAMICHI. 


weeks the gospel of love, presenting Christ to them as 
their friend and Saviour, holding up the truth in its most 
lovely and winning forms. It has apparently made no 
impression upon their hearts. It is true, they come in 
crowds to hear me, but what I say to them makes no per- 
manent mark. They forget it, the monTent the echo of my 
voice dies upon their ears. The fact is, friend Brown, I 
am disappointed. I did hope the Lord would have given 
this people unto me. But,” continued he, after a mo- 
ment’s pause, “ what right have I to be desponding? God 
reigns.” 

“ According to all accounts,” replied Mr. Brown, “ th^y 
must be a hard set to deal with, both mentally and mor- 
ally. I should judge, from what ]\Iiss Adele tells me of 
your instructions, that you have not put tliem upon the 
same rigid regimen of law and truth, that you may remember 
you prescribed for my spiritual cureV’ IVIr. Brown smiled. 
“Perhaps,” he continued, “these men are not capable of 
appreciating the mild aspect of mercy. They do not pos- 
sess the susceptibility to which you have been appealing. 
They need to have tlie terrors of the law preached to them.” 

“ Ah ! that is it, friend Brown, you have it. I am con- 
vinced it is so. I have felt it for several days past. But 
I do dislike, extremely, to endeavor to chain them to the 
truth by fear. Love is so much more noble a passion to 
enlist for Christ. Yet they must be drawn by some motive 
from their sins. Love often follows in the wake and casts 
out fear.” 

“I remember,” said Mr. Brown, “to have heard Mr. 


MIRAIVnCHI. 


121 


N , the famous Maine lumber-merchant, who you 

know is an infidel, say that the only way the lumbermen 
can be kept from stealing each other’s logs, is by preach- 
ing to them eternal punishment.” 

“No doubt it is true, ” replied the good man, “ and if 
these souls cannot be sweetly constrained into the beautiful 
fields of peace, they must -be compelled into them by the 
terrors of that death that hangs over the transgressor. Be- 
sides, I feel a strong presentiment that some great judg- 
ment is about to descend upon this people. All day, the 
thought has weighed upon me like an incubus. I cannot 
shake it off. Something terrible is in store for them. 
IVhat it may be, I know not. But I am impressed with 
the duty of preaching a judgment to come to them, tliis 
very afternoon. I will do it.” 

A slight rattling of dishes at the door announced the ar- 
rival of Bess, with a tray of refreshment for Mr. Broum, 
and, at the same moment, the tinkling of a bell below, 
summoned Mr. Norton to the table. 

Half an hour later, the missionary, with a slow pace and 
the air of one oppressed with a great burden, walked to 
the Grove. He seated himself on a rustic bench and with 
his head resting on the trunk of an immense elm, which 
overshadowed him, sat absorbed in earnest thought, wliile 
the people gathered in a crowd around him. 

At length, the murmuring voices were hushed into 
quiet. He rose, took up his pocket Testament, read a por- 
tion of the tenth chapter of Hebrews, offered a prayer, 


11 


122 


MIRAlNIICm. 


and then sang in his tnimpet tones, Charles Wesley’s 
magnificently solemn hymn, commencing, — 

“ Lo ! on a narrow neck of land 
’Twixt two unbounded seas, I stand 
Secure ! insensible ! ” 

He then repeated a clause in the chapter he had just 
read to them. “ If we sin wilfully after that we have 
received a knowledge of the truth, there remaineth no 
more sacrifice for sins, but a certain fearful looking for 
of judgment and fiery indignation, which shall devour the 
adversaries.” 

He began his discourse by reminding the people of the 
truths he had presented to them diu-ing the weeks past. 
He had told them faitlifully of their sinfulness before a 
holy God, and pointed out the way of safety and purifica- 
tion through a crucified Saviour. And he had earnestly 
sought to induce them, by the love tliis Saviour bore them, 
to forsake their transgressions and exercise trust in Him. 
He now told them, in accents broken with grief, that lie 
had every reason to fear they had not followed his counsel, 
and observing their hardness of heart, he felt constrained 
to bring them another and different message, — a message 
less tender, but coming from the same divine source. He 
then unfolded to them the wrath of the Most High, kindled 
against those who scorn the voice of ‘mercy from a dying 
Saviour. 

They listened intently. His voice, his manner, his 
words electrified them. His countenance was illumined 


MIRA3IICHI. 


123 


■R’ith an awful light, such as they had not before witnessed 
there. His eye shot out prophetic meanings. At the 
close, he said, in a low tone, like the murmur of distant 
thunder, “ what I have told you, is true, — true, as that we 
stand on tliis solid ground, — true, as that sky that bends 
above us. This book says it. It is, therefore, eternal 
truth. I have it impressed upon my mind, that a judg- 
ment, a swift, tremendous judgment, is about to descend 
upon this people on account of their sins. I cannot shake 
off this impression, and, under its power, I warn you to 
prepare your souls to meet some dreadful calamity. 

I know not how it will come, — in what shape, with 
what power. But I feel that death is near. It seems to 
me that I see many before me, who will soon be beyond 
the bounds of time. I feel constrained to say this to you. 
I beg you prepare to meet your God.” 

When he ceased, a visible shudder ran through the 
multitude. They rose slowly and wended their way home- 
ward, many with blanched faces, and even the hardiest 
with a vague sense of some startling event impending. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


JOHN AND CJESAE. 

At four o’clock in the afternoon on the' following day 
Mrs. Dubois sat in the Madonna room. Her fingers were 
employed upon a bit of exquisite embroidery, over which 
she bent with a contracted brow, as if her mind was 
filled with anxious thought. 

Adele, robed in a French silk of delicate blue, her rich, 
dark hair looped up in massive braids, sat listlessly, poring 
over a volume of old French romance. 

Suddenly rising, she threw it hastily aside, exclaiming 
as she went towards an open window, “ O ! this intermin- 
able drought I It makes me feel so miserable and restless. 
Does it not oppress you, ma chere mere ? ” 

JVIrs. Dubois started suddenly, as Adele spoke. 

“ Ah ! yes. It is very wearisome,” she replied. 

“ Ma mere, I have disturbed you. Of what were you 
thinking when I spoke ? ” 

“ Thinking of the chateau de Rossillon and its inmates. 
It is very long since we have had news of them. I am 
much troubled about the dear friends. It would be like 
rain on the parched ground, could I once more hear my 
uncle’s voice. The good, kind old man ! ” 


3iiRAmcm. 


125 


“Never fear, ma mere. You shall hear it. I have a 
plan that will soon take us all to Picardy. You smile, but 
do I not accomplish my little schemes ? Do not ask me, 
please, how I shall do it. The expedition is not wholly 
matured.” 

“ Not wholly matured, indeed ! ” said Mrs Dubois, with 
an incredulous smile. 

“Nevertheless, it will take place, ma mere. But not 
this week. In the mean time , I am going to invite the 
gentlemen, who are doubtless moping in Mr. Brown’s 
room, as we are here, to come in and examine that curi- 
ously illuminated missal of yours. How agreeable Mr. 
Brown is, now that he is getting well ! Don’t you think 
so ? And ]Mr. Norton is as good and radiant as a seraph ! 
No doubt, they are pining with homesickness, just as you 
arc, and wUl be glad of our society.” 

Adele left the room, and soon returned, accompanied by 
the two individuals, of whom she had gone in search. 

She placed IMr. Bro^vn, who looked quite superb in his 
brilliantly flowered dressing-gown, in a comer of a sofa. 
Having examined the missal Avith interest, for a time, he 
handed it to Mr. Norton and was soon engaged in an ani- 
mated conversation with Mrs. Dubois, respecting various 
works of ancient art, they had Toth seen in Europe. 

• Adele watched with pleasure the light kindling in her 
mother’s eyes, as she went back, in memory and thought, 
to other days. 

Mr. Norton gazed at his friend Brown, transfigured 
suddenly from the despairing invalid, who had lost all inter- 
11 * 


126 


MERAmCIII. 


est in life, to the animated being before him, with traces 
indeed of languor and disease upon his person, but gloAving 
now with life, thought, and emotion. “ A precious jewel 
gathered for the crown of Him, who sits on the throne 
above,” he whispered to himself. 

Felicitating himself with this thought, he divided his 
attention between the conversation of IMrs. Dubois and 
Mr. Brown, and the marvels of skill, labor, and beauty 
traced by the old monk upon the pages before him. 

“ I must say. Miss Adele, that these lines and colors 
are put on most ingeniously. But I cannot help thinking 
those ancient men might have been better employed in trac- 
ing the characters of divine truth upon the hearts of their 
fellow-beings.” 

“True,” said Adele, “had they been free to do it. 
But they were shut up from the world and could not. 
Illuminating missals was far better than to pass their lives 
in perfect idleness and inanition.” 

“ D^on’t you think, my dear,” said the missionary, who 
had wisely never before questioned any member of the 
family on the points of religious faith, “ that the cloister 
life was a strange one to live, for men who professed to 
have tlie love of God in their hearts, with a whole world 
lying in sin around them, for a field to labor in ? ” 

“Yes, I do, and I think too many other things are 
■\vrong about the Roman Church, but it pains my mother 
to hear me speak of them,” said Adele, in a low tone, 
glancing at her mother. 

“ Is it so ? ” exclaimed the good man. His face lighted 


MIR.V^IICin. 


127 


up with a secret satisfaction. But he fixed his eyes upon 
the book and was silent. 

Just then, some one knocked on the parlor door. Adele 
opened it and beheld Mrs. McNab, — her broad figure 
adorned ^vith the brilliant chintz dress and yellow bandanna 
handkerchief, filling up the entire doorway, and her fiice 
surrounded by the wide, full frill, its usual framework, 
expressing a curious mixture of shyness and audacity. 

It was her first call at the house, since Adele’s summary 
process of ejection had been served upon her, and it was 
not until that young lady had welcomed her cordially and 
invited her to come in, that she ventured beyond the 
threshold. She then came forward, made a low courtesy, 
and seating herself near the door, remarked that Bess was 
not below, and hearing voices in the picture parlor, wishing 
to hear from the patient, she had ventured up.* 

“An’ how do ye find yersel’ IVIr. Brown?” said she, 
turning to that gentleman. “ But I needna ask the ques- 
tion, sin’ yer looks teU ye’re amaist week” 

]Mr. Brown assented to her remark upon his health, and 
expressed to her his obligations for her attentions to him 
during his illness. 

“ Them’s naethin she replied with a conscious air of 
benevolence. “ ’Tis the buzziness o’ my life to tak’ care 
o’ sick bodii^fe.” 

“How are IMrs. Campbell’s cliildren?” inquired Mrs. 
Dubois. 

“ All got weel, but Katy. She’s mizerble eneugh.” 

“Has she not recovered from the measles, Mrs. Mc- 


Nab?” 


128 


MIRAlinCHI. 


“ The measles are gone, but sunthin’ has settled on her 
limits. She coudis like a woodchuck. An’ I must be a 

O O 

goin’, for I tole Mrs. Cawmell, I wadna stay a bit, but 
vyad-come back, immediate.” 

As she rose to go, she caught a sight of several objects 
on the lawn below, that rooted her to the spot. 

“ Why ther’s Mummychog,” she exclaimed, “ leading a 
gran’ black charger, wi’ a tall brave youth a walkin’ by 
his side. Wha can he be ? 

At that moment a low, clear laugh rang out upon the 
air, reaching the ears of the little company assembled in 
the parlor. 

At the sound, Mr. Brown’s pale face changed to a per- 
fectly ashen hue, then flushed to a deep crimson. He 
started to his feet, and exclaimed, “John Lansdowne ! 
brave fellow ! ” 

It was even so. John and Ciesar had reached their 
destination. 


CHAPTER XV. 


TRAVELLING IN NEAV BRUNSWICK. 

The following morning, Mr. Norton, Mr. Somers, alias 
IMr. Brown and John Lansdowne were sittins: together, 
talking of the route from to IVIiramiclii. 

“You must have had a tedious journey, Mr. Lans- 
downe,” observed the missionary. 

“ By no means, sir. Never had a more glorious time in 
my life. The reach through the forest was magnificent. 
By the way, Ned, I shot a wolf. I ’ll tell you how it was, 
sometime. But how soon shall you feel able to start for 
home ? ” 

“In two or three weeks. Dr. Wright says,” replied 
Mr. Somers. 

“ You must not take the road again, young gentleman,” 
remarked Mr. Norton, “ until we have had a fall of I'ain. 
JThc country is scorched with heat beyond anything I 
ever knew. Fine scenery on the St. John River, Mr. 
Lansdowne.” 

“ Wonderfully fine and varied ! Like the unfolding of a 
splendid panorama ! In fact, it nearly consoled me for the 
sleepless nights and horribly cooked dinners.” 

“ Ah ! well — . I Ve had some experience wliile passing 


130 


MIRA31ICHI. 


up and down in these parts. In some localities, the coun- 
try is pretty well popidated,” said Mr. Norton with a broad 
smile. 

“ I can certify to that geographical fact,” said John 
laughing. ‘ ‘ One night, after retiring, I found that a large 
and active family of mice had taken previous shares in the 
straw cot furnished me. A stirring time, they had, I assure 
you. The following night, I was roused up from a ten 
horse-power slumber, by a little million of enterprising 
insects, — well, — their style of locomotion, though irregu- 
lar, accomplishes remarkable results. By the way, I doubt 
that story of a pair of fleas, harnessed into a tiny chariot 
and broken into a trot.” 

“ So do I,” said Mr. Norton. “ ’Tis a libel on them. 
They couldn’t go such a humdrum gait.” * 

“ That reminds me,” said Mr. Somers, “ of a very 
curious and original painting I saw in England. It repre- 
sented the ghost of a flea.” 

“ Ridiculous ! ” exclaimed John. “ You are romancin£r, 
Ned.” 

“ I am stating a fact. It was painted by that eccen- 
tric genius, Blake, upon a panel, and exhibited to me by 
an aquaintance, who was a friend of the artist.” 

“ What was it like?” said John. 

‘ ‘ It was a naked figure with a strong body and a short 
neck, with burning eyes longmg for moisture, and a face 
worthy of a murderer, holding a bloody cup in its clawed 
hands, out of which it seemed eager to drink. The shape 
was strange enough and the coloring splendid, — a kind of 


MRAMICm. 


131 


glistening green and dusky gold, — beautifully varnished. 
It was in fact the spiritualization of a flea.” 

“ What a conception ! ” exclaimed Mr. Norton. “The 
artist’s imagination must have been stimulated by intense 
personal suflferings from said insect. The savage little 
wretch. How did you manage the diet, Mr. Lansdowne ? ’’ 
continued the missionary, a smile twinkling all over his 
face. 

“ Ah ! yes, the table d ’hole. I found eggs and potatoes 
safe, and devoted myself to them, I was always sure to 
get snagged, when I tried anything else.” 

“ Verily, there is room for improvement in the mode of 
living, among His jMajesty’s loyal subjects of this Prov- 
ince. I should say, that in most respects, they are about 
half a century behind the age,” said Mr. Norton. 

“ How did you ascertain I was here, John?” inquired 
]\Ir. Somers. 

“ I learned at Fredericton that you had left with Mr. 
Dubois, and I obtained directions there, jfor my route. 
Really,” added John, “you are fortunate to have found 
such an establishment as this to be laid up in.” 

“ Y6s. God be thanked for the attention and care re- 
ceived in this house and for the kindness of this good 
friend,” said Mr. Somers, laying his hand affectionately 
on the missionary’s arm. 

“But this Mummychog,” said John, breaking into a 
clear, musical laugh, “ that I came across last night. He 
is a curiosity. That of course, isn’t his real name. 
'Wliat is it ? ” - 


132 


iVIIRAMICHI. 


“ He goes by no other name here,” replied Mr. Norton. 
“ I met liim,” said John, “ a few rods from here, and asked 
him if he could inform me where Mr. Dubois lived. 

‘ Well, s ’pose I ken,’ he said. After waiting a few min- 
utes for some direction, and none forthcoming, I asked, 
‘ will you have the goodness to show me the house, sir? ’ 
‘ S ’pose you hev particiler business there,’ he inquired. 
‘ Yes. I have, sir.’ ‘ Well ! I s’pose ye are goin’ fur to 
see hur ? ’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ Hur ! ’ I exclaimed, my mind immediately reverting to 
the worthy ancient, who assisted Aaron in holding up the 
hands of Moses on a certain occasion, mentioned in the old 
Testament. ‘Hur! who is Hur? I am in pursuit of a 
gentleman, — a friend of mine. I know no other person 
here.’ ‘ O well! come then; I’ll show ye.’ As he was 
walldng along by Caesar’s side, I heard him say, apparently 
to himself, ‘ He ’s a gone ’un, any way.’ ” 

“He is a queer specimen,” said IVIr. Norton. “And 
now I tliink of it, Mr. Somers, IVIicah told me this morn- 
ing, that a good horse will be brought into the settlement, 
by a friend of his, in about a week. He thinks, if you 
like the animal, he can make a bargain and get it for you.” 

“Thank you for your trouble about it, my dear sir,” 
replied Mr. Somers.. 

“ Two weeks then, Ned,” said John, “ before the Doc- 
tor will let you start. That will give me ample opportu- 
nity to explore the length of the Miramichi River. lYhat 
are the fishing privileges in this region ? ” 

“ Fine, — remarkably good ! ” said the missionary. 


MIRAlMICm. 


133 


In the course of a few minutes, John, with the assistance 
of Mr. Norton, arranged a plan for a fishing and hunting 
excursion, upo^which, if Micah’s services could be obtain- 
ed, he was to start the next day. 

After inquiring for the most feasible way of transmit- 
ting a letter, he retired to relieve the anxiety of his parents 
by informing them of the success of his*journey. As 
might have been expected, after a somewhat detailed 
account of his travels, the remainder of his epistle home 
was filled with the effervescence of his excitement at 
having found Mr. Somers, and thus triumphantly ac- 
complished the object of his expedition. 

Beneath the flash and foam of. John’s youthful spirit, 
there were depths of hidden tenderness and truth. He 
was warmly attached to his uncle. The difference in age 
between them was not great, and even that, was consid- 
erably diminished by the peculiar traits of each. John pos- 
sessed the hardier features of character. He had developed 
a strong, determined will and other granite qualities, which 
promised to make him a tower of defence to those that 
• might shelter themselves beneath his wing. These traits, 
contrasting with liis own, Mr. Somers appreciated and 
adinffed. They imparted to him a strengthening in- 
fluence. John, on the other hand, was charmed with the 
genial disposition, the mobile and brilliant intellect of his 
uncle, and the ready sympathy he extended him in his 
pursuits. In short, they were drawn ‘together in that 
peculiar, but not uncommon bond of friendship, symbol- 
ized by the old intimacy of the ivy and the oak. 

12 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE FLOWER UNFOLDmO. 

There is notliing in human life more lovely than the 
transition of a young girl from childliood into womanhood. 
It suggests the springtime of the year, when the leaf 
buds are partly opened and the tender blossoms wave in 
the genial sunshine ; when the colors so airy and delicate 
are set and the ethereal odors are wafted gently to the 
senses ; when earth and air are filled with sweet prophe- 
cies of the ripened splendor of summer. It is like the mo- 
ments of early morn, when the newly risen sun throws 
abroad his light, giving token of the majestic glories of noon- 
day, while the earth exhales a dewy freshness and the air 
is enchanted by the songs of birds, just wakened from their 
nests. It recalls the overture of a grand musical drama in- 
troducing the joyous melodies, the wailing minors, the noble 
chords and sublime symphonies of the glorious harmony. 

The development of the maiden is like the opening of 
some lovely flower-bud. As life unfolds, the tender smile 
and blush of childhood mingle with the grace of maidenly 
repose; the upturned, radiant eye gathers new depths of 
thought and emotion ; the delicate features, the wavy, 
pliant form, begin to reveal their wealth of grace and 
beauty. 


MIRAmCIU. 


135 


Sometimes, the overstimulated bud is forced into intense 
and unnatural life and bloom. Sometimes, the develop- 
ment is slow and almost imperceptible. Fed gently by 
the light and dews of heaven, the flower, at length, circles 
forth in perfected beauty. Here, tlie airy grace and 
playfulness of a Rosalind, or the purity and goodness of 
a Desdemona is developed; there, the intense, passionate 
nature of a Juliet, or the rich intellect and lofty elegance 
of a Portia. 

But, how brief is that bright period of transition ! 
Scarcely can the artist catch the beautiful creation and 
transfer it to the canvas, ere it has changed, or faded. 

“ How small a part of time they share, 

That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! ” 

Adele Dubois had just reached this period of life. Her 
form was ripening into a noble and statuesque symmetry ; 
the light in her eyes shot forth from darkening depths ; 
a faint bloom was creeping into her cheek ; a soft smile 
was wreathing those lips, wrought by nature, into a some- 
what haughty curve ; the frank, careless, yet imperious 
manner was chastening into a calmer grace ; a transform- 
ing glory shone around her, making her one of those 
visions that sometimes waylay and liaimt a man’s life 
forever. 

{ Her physical and intellectual growth were symmetrical. 
Her mind was quick, penetrative, and in constant exercise. 
Truthful and upright, her soul shone through her form and 
features, as a clear flame, placed within a transparent vase, 


136 


MIRAMICm. 


brings out the adornments of flower, leaf, and gem, with 
which it is enriched. 

In a brown stone house, in the city of P. , State of , 

there hangs in one of the chambers a picture of Adele, 
representing her as she was at this period of her life. It 
is full of beauty and elegance. Sun-painting was an art 
unknown in the days when it was executed. But the 
modern photographist could hardly have produced a pic- 
ture so exquisitely truthful as well as lovely. 


CHAPTER XVn. 


THE DEER HUNT. 

Early in the morning, John Lansdowne, having donned 
his hunting suit and taken a hasty breakfast, seized his 
rifle and joined Micah, already waiting for him on the lawn 
in front of the house. 

He was equipped in a tunic-lilce shirt of dressed buck- 
skin, mth leggings and moccasins of the same material, 
each curiously embroidered and fringed. The suit was a 
present from his mother, — procured by her from Canada. 
His head was surmounted by a blue military cap and his 
belt adorned with powder pouch and hunting-knife. Micah 
with a heavy blanket coat of a dingy, brown color, leg- 
gings of embroidered buckskin, skull cap of gray fox skin, 
and Indian moccasins ; wore at his belt a butcher knife in 
a scabbard, a tomahawk, otter-skin pouch, containing bul- 
lets and other necessaries for such an expedition. 

In the dim morning light they walked briskly to a little 
cove in the river, where Micah’s birchen canoe lay, and 
foimd it already stored with supplies for the excursion. 
There were bags of provisions, cooking utensils, a small 
tent, neatly folded, IVIicah’s'old Dutch rifle, fishing taclde, 

and other articles of minor account. 

12 * 


138 


MIRAMICHI. 


‘ ‘ Ever traviled much in a canoo ? ” inquired Micah. 

“ None at all,” replied John. 

“ Well, then I’ll jest mention, yeou need n’t jump into 
it, like a catameount rampagin’ arter fodder. Yeou step 
in kinder keerful and set deown and don’t move reound 
more ’n ye ken help. It ’s a mighty crank little critter, I 
tell ye. ’ T would be tolable unconvenient to upset and git 
eour cargo turned into the stream.” 

“It would indeed!” said John. “I’ll obey orders, 
Muramychog.” 

John entered the canoe with tact, apparently to INIicah’s 
satisfaction and soon they were gliding down the river, 
now, owing to the long-continued drought, considerably 
shrunk within its banks. 

Just as night gave its parting salute to the advancing 
day, the voyagers passed into a region densely wooded 
down to the water’s edge. Oaks, elms, and maples, birches 
of different sorts, willows and cranberry, grew in wild 
luxuriance along the margin, tinged with the rich hues of 
autumn. A thousand spicy odors exhaled from the frost- 
bitten plants and shrubs, filling the senses with an intoxi- 
cating incense. When the rising sun shot its level rays 
tlu-ough the trees, the clear stream quivered with golden 
arrows. 

John viewed the scenes through which they glided with 
eager eye. 

Micah’s countenance expressed intense satisfaction. He 
sat bolt upright in the stem of the canoe, steering with his 
paddle, his keen bullet eyes dancing from side to side exam- 
ining every object as they passed along. Both were silent. 


MIRAMICni. 


139 


At length, IMicah exclaimed, “Well, Captin’, this is 
the pootiest way of livin’ I know on, any heow. My ’pinion 
is that human^natur was meant to live reound on rivers and 
in the woods, or vyagin’ on lakes, and sech. I never 
breathe jest nateral and lively, till I git eout o’ between 
heouse walls into the free air.” 

“ ’T is a glorious life, Micah ! I agree to it.” 

‘ ‘ Hark ! ” said IMicah ! Got yer piece ready ? Maybe 
you ’ll hev’ a chance to bring sumthin’ deown. I heerd an 
old squaw holler jest neow.” 

“I’m ready,” said John. “But I didn’t hear any 
sound. What was it like ? ” 

“ O ! kinder a scoldin’ seound. Cawcawec ! caw- 
cawee ! Don’t yer hear the critter reelin’ of it off ? Ha ! 
’tis dyin’ away, though. We shall hear it agin, by 
and b}^” 

“ An old squaw,” said John, as the excitement the 
prospect of a shot had raised in his mind subsided. “ Do 
you have such game as that, in IMiramichi? I’ve heard 
of -ivitches flying on broomsticks through the air, but 
did n’t know before tliat squaws are in the habit of skylark- 
ing about in that way.” 

“Well, ye’ll kiiow it by observation, before long,” 
said IMicah, with a slight twitch of one eye. “Them’s 
ducks from Canada, a goin’ south’ard, as they allers do in 
the fall o; the year. They keep up that ere scoldin’ seound, 
day and night. Cawcawee ! cawcawee ! kind of an aggra- 
vatin’ holler I But I like it, ruther. It allers ’minds me 
of a bustin’ good feller that was deown here from Canada 
once.” . 


140 


MiRAmcm. 


“ How remind you of him? ” inquired John. 

“Well, he cam’ deown on bissiniss, but he ran afowl 
o’ me, and we^was eoutin the woods together, consid’able. 
He used to set eoutside the camp, bright, starlight 
nights, and sing songs, and sech. He had a powerful, 
sweet v’ice, and it allers ’peared to me as ef every kind 
of a livin’ thing hushed up and listened, when he sung 
o’ nights. He could reel off most anything you can think 
on. There was one kind of a mournful ditty he sung, and 
once in a while he brung in a .chorus, — cawcawee ! 
cawcawee, — jest like what them ducks say, only, the way 
he made it seound, was soft and meller and doleful-like. I 
liked to hear him sing that, only he was so solemn arter 
it, and would set and fetch up great long sythes. And 
once I asked him what made him so sober and take on so, 
arter singin’ it. He said, Micah, my good lad, when I 
war a young man, I had a little French wife, that could 
run like a hind and sing like a wild bird. Well, she died. 
The very last thing she sung, was, that ’ere song. AVlien 
I see how he felt, I never asked him another question. 
He sot and sythed a spell and then got up, took a most 
oncommon swig of old Jamaky and turned into liis blanket.” 

Just as IVIicah ended this account, John caught sight of 
a large bird at a distance directly ahead of them, and his 
attention became entirely absorbed. It took flight from a 
partly decayed tree on the northern bank, and commenced 
wheeling around, above the water. The canoe was rapidly 
nearing this promising game. 

Micah said not a word, but observed, in an apparently 
careless mood, the movements of his young companion. 


MIRAMICHI. 


141 


Suddenly, the bird poised himself for an instant in the 
air, then closed his wings and shot downward. A wliiz- 
zing sound ! then a plash, and he disappeared beneath the 
surface, throwing up the water into sparkling foam- 
wreaths. He was absent but a moment, and then bore 
upward into the air a large fish. 

John’s shot took liim on the wing, and he dropped dead, 
his claws yet grasping the fish, on the water’s edge. 

“ Ruther harnsum than otherwise ! ” exclaimed Micah. 
“ You ’ve got your dinner, Captin’.” 

And he put the canoe rapidly towards the river-bank, to 
pick up the game. 

They found it to be a large fish-hawk, with a good- 
sized salmon in its fierce embrace. It was a noble speci- 
men of the bird, tinted with brown, ashy white, and blue, 
with eyes of deep orange color. 

“ Well, that are a prize,” said Micah. “ Them birds 
ain’t common in these parts, bein’ as they mostly live on 
sea-coasts. But this un was on his way seouth, and liis 
journey has ended quite unexpected.” 

Saying which, he threw both bird and fish into the 
canoe, and darted forward on the river again. 

“When shall we reach the deer feeding-ground you 
spoke of, INlicah ? 

“O! not afore night,” said Micah. “And then we 
must n’t go anyst it till mornin’.” 

“ I suppose you have brought down some scores of deer 
in your hunting raids, IVIicah? ” 

“ Why, yes, — takin’ it by and large, I’ve handled over 


142 


JIIEASnCHI. 


consid’able many of ^em. ’Tis a critter I hate to kill, 
Captin’, though I s’pose it seounds soft to say so. Ef 
’t wan’t for thinkin’ they ’ll git picked oflp, anyway, I dunno 
hut I should let ’em alone altogether.” 

“ Why do you dislike to kill them? ” 

Well, to begin with, they ’re a harnsum critter. They 
hev sech graceful ways with ’em, kinder grand ones tew, 
specially them bucks, with their crests reared up agin the 
sky, lookin’ so bold and free like. And them bright little 
does, — sometimes they hev sech a skeerd, tender look in 
their eyes, — and I ’ve seen the tears roll out on ’em, \vhen 
they lay wounded and disabled like, jest like a human 
critter. It allers makes me feel kind o’ puggetty to see 
that.” 

They made a noon halt, in the shadows cast by a clump 
of silver birches, and did ample justice to the provision 
supplied from the pantry of the Dubois house. 

At four o’clock they proceeded onward towards the 
deer hunt. John listened with unwearied interest to 
Micah’s stories of peril and hair-breadth ’scapes, by flood, 
field, and forest, gathering many valuable hints in the 
science of woodcraft from the practised hunter. 

Just at dark, they reached a broad part of the stream, 
and selected their camping-ground. 

The tent was soon pitched, a fire of brushwood kindled 
and the salmon broiled to a relish that an epicure could 
not have cavilled at. The table, a flat rock, was also 
garnished with white French rolls, sliced ham, brown 
bread, blocks of savory cheese, and tea, smoking hot. 


JIIRAMICHI. 


143 


The sylvan scene, — the moon shedding its light around, 
the low music of the gently rippling waves, the spicy odor 
of the burning cedar, the snow-white clouds and deep blue 
of the sky mirrored in the stream, made it a place fit at 
least for rural divinities. Pan might have looked in, — ah I 
he is dead, — his ghost then might have looked in upon 
them from behind some old gnarled tree, with a frown of 
envy at this intrusion upon his ancient domain. 

On the following morning, at the first faint glimmering 
of light, Micah was alert. He shook our young hero’s 
shoulder and woke him from a pleasant dream. 

“ Neow ’s the time, Captin’,” said Micah, speaking in a 
cautious undertone, “ neow’s the time, ef we do it at all, 
to nab them deer. While your gittin’ rigged and takin’ a 
cold bite. I’ll tell ye the lay o’ things. Ye see, don’t 
ye, that pint o’ land ahead on us, a juttin’ out into the 
stream? Well, we’ve got to put the canoe on the water 
right away, hustle in the things, and percede just as whist 
and keerful as we ken, to that pint. Jest beyend that, 
I expect the animils, when day ’s fairly up, will come to 
drink. And there ’s where we’ 11 get a shot at ’em.” 

“ But what makes you expect they’ll come to drink at 
that particular place, Micah? ” 

“ You see that pooty steep hill, that slopes up jest back 
o’ the pint o’ land, don’t ye? Well, behind that hill which 
is steeper ’n it looks to be, there ’s a largish, level piece 
of greound that’s been burnt over within a few years, and 
it ’s grown up to tall grass and got a number o’ clumps of 
young trees on it, and it ’s ’bout surreounded by a lot o’ 


144 


MiRAjynCHi. 


master rocky hills. That ’s the feedin’ greound. There ’s 
a deep gorge cut right inter that hill, back ’o the pint. 
The gorge has a pooty smooth rocky bed. In the spring 
o’ the year, there ’s a brook runs through there and pours 
Inter the river jest below. But it ’s all dry neow, and the 
deer, as a gen’al thing scramble eout of their feedin’ place 
into this gorge and foller it deown to the river to git their 
drink. It brings ’em eout jest below the pint. We have 
got neow to cross over to the pint, huggin’ the bank, so 
the critters sha n’t see us, and take a shot from there. Git 
yer piece ready, Captin.’ Ef there ’s tew, or more, I ’ll 
hev the fust shot and you the second. Don’t speak, arter 
we git on to the pint, the leastest word.” 

“ I understand,” said John, as he examined his rifle, to 
see that all was right. 

“Now for it,” said MIcah, as having finished their ar- 
rangements, they entered the canoe. 

Silently, they paddled along, sheltered from observation 
by the little wooded promontory and following as nearly as 
possible the crankling river as it indented into the land. 
In a few minutes, they landed and proceeded noiselessly to 
get a view of the bank below. 

After a moment’s reconnoitre, John turned his face 
towards INIicah with a look of blank disappointment. 

But Micah looked cool and expectant. He merely 
pointed up the rocky gorge and said under his breath — 

“ *T aint time to expect ’em yet. The wind, what there 
is on it, is favorable tew, — it blows right in our faces and 
can’t kerry any smell of us to ’em. Neow hide yourself 


WIKAMICHI. 


145 


right away. Keep near me, Captin’, so that we ken make 
motions to each other.” 

In a few moments they had secured their ambuscade, 
each lying on the ground at full length, concealed by low, 
scrubby trees. By a slight turn of the head, each could 
command a view up the gorge for a considerable distance. 

‘ Just as the sun began to show his broad, red disc in the 
east, new light shot forth from the eyes of the hunters, as 
they perceived a small herd coming down the rocky pathway. 
The creatures bounded along with a wild and graceful free- 
dom, until they reached the debouche of the pass into the 
valley. There they paused, — scanned the scene with 
eager eyes and snuffed the morning breeze. The wind 
brought no tale of their enemies, close at hand, and they 
bounded on fearlessly to the river’s brink. 

It was apparently a family party, a noble buck leadiii^ 
the group, followed by a doe and two young hinds. They 
sQon had their noses in the stream. The buck took large 
draughts and then raising his haughty front, tossed his 
antlers, as if in defiance, in the face of the god of day. 

■ INlicah’s eye was at his rifle. A crack and a whizz in 
the air. The noble creature gave one mighty bound and 
fell dead. The ball had entered his broad forehead and 
penetrated to the brain. 

At the report of the rifle, the doe, who was still drink- 
ing, gave a bound in the air, scattering the spray from her 
dripping mouth, wheeled with the rapidity of lightning, and 
sprang towards the gorge. But John’s instantaneous shot 
sped through the air and the animal fell dead from her 
13 


148 


‘ mRAMICHI. 


“ Well, the pesky critters reound here ruther took to 
him, and he bought a great lot o’ land ^nd got workmen 
and built a house, and fetched his wife and baby here. So 
they ’ve lived here ever since. But they ’re no more like 
the rest o’ the people in these parts, than I’m like you, 
and it has allers been a mystery to me why they should 
stay. But I s’pose they know their own bissiniss best. 
They ’re allers givin’ to the poor, and they try to make the 
settlers more decent every way, but ’taint been o’ much 
use.” 

After a long, meditative pause, Micah said, “ Neow 
Captin’, I want yeou to answer me one question, honestly. 
I aint a goin’ to ask any thing sarcy. Did ye ever in yer 
life see a harnsumer, witchiner critter than Miss Adele is ? ” 

Micah fixed his keen eye triumphantly upon our hero, 
as if he was aware beforehand ^hat but one response could 
be made. John surprised by the suddenness of the ques- 
tion, and somewhat confused, for the moment, by a vague 
consciousness that his companion had found the key to his 
thoughts, hesitated a little, but soon recovered suflSciently 
to parry the stroke. 

“ You don’t mean to say, Micah, that there ’s any person 
for beauty and bewitchingness to be compared with Mrs. 
McNab?” 

“ Whew-ew,” uttered Micah, while every line and feature 
in his countenance expressed InefiPable scorn. He gave 
several extra strokes of the paddle with great energy. 
Suddenly, his grim features broke into a genial smile. 

“Well, Captin’,” he said,” ef yeou choose to play 


MIRAMICHI. 


149 


’possum that way, ye ken. But ye need n’t expect me to 
believe in them tricks, cos I’m an old ’un.” 

John laughed and replied, “ Mummychog, Miss Adele 
Dubois is a perfect beauty. I can’t deny it.” 

“ And a parfeck angel tew,” said Micah. 

“ I don’t doubt it,” said John, energetically. “ When 
shall we reach the settlement, Micah ? ” 

“ Abeout three hours arter moonrise.” 

And just at that time our voyagers touched the spot 
they had started from the day before, and unloaded their 
cargo. They were received at the Dubois house with 
the compliments due to successful hunters. 


CHAPTER XVin. 


THE PERSECUTION. 

On the following afternoon, Mr. Norton preached to a 
larger and far more attentive audience than usual. The 
solemn warnings he had uttered and the fearful presenti- 
ments of coming evil he had expressed on the last occasion 
of assembling at the Grove, had been communicated from 
mouth to mouth. Curiosity, and perhaps some more 
elevated motive, had drawn a numerous crowd of people 
together to hear him. 

He spoke to them plainly of their sinful conduct, partic- 
ularizing the vices of intemperance, profanity, gambling, 
and Sabbath-breaking, to which many of them were ad- 
dicted. He earnestly besought them to turn from these 
evil ways and accept pardon for their past transgressions 
and mercy through Christ. He showed them the conse- 
quences of their refusal to listen to the teachings and 
counsels of the book of God, and, at last, depicted to 
them, with great vividness, the awful glories and terrors 
of the day of final account, 

“ When the Judge shall come in splendor, 

Strict to mark and just to render.” 


JIinAMlCIlI. 


151 


As his mind dilated with the awful grandeur of the 
theme, his thoughts kindled to a white heat, and he flung 
oflf words that seemed to scorch and burn even the callous 
souls of those time-hardened transgressors. He poured 
upon their ears, in toijes of trumpet power and fulness, 
echoed from the hills around, the stern threatenings of 
injured justice ; he besought them, in low, sweet, thrilling 
accents, to yield themselves heart and life to the Great 
Judge, who will preside in the day of impartial accounts, 
and thus avert his wrath and be happy forever. 

At the close, he threw himself for a few moments 
upon the rustic bench appropriated to him, covered his 
face with his hands and seemed in silent prayer. The 
people involuntarily bent their heads in sympathy and 
remained motionless. Then, he rose and gave them the 
evening benediction. 

Mr. Somers, his nephew, and Adele had been sitting 
under the shade of an odorous balm poplar, on the skirt of 
the crowd, at first watching its movements, and then drawn 
away from these observations, by tha impressive discourse 
of Mr. Norton. 

“ What a clear, melodious voice he has ! ” said John in 
an undertone to Adele, as the missionary finished the 
opening service. 

“Wait, until you hear its trumpet tones, Mr. Lans- 
downe. Those will come, by and by. They are magnifi- 
cent. Please listen.” And Adele placed a finger upon 
her lips, in token of silence. 

John listened, at first, in obedience to her request, but 
he soon became enchained by the speaker. 


152 


mEA^ncHi. 


After the discourse was concluded, the trio remained 
sitting as if spellbound, quite unobservant of the crowd, 
slowly dispersing around them. 

“ What would that man have been, Ned,” at length ex-' 
claimed John, “ had he received the culture which such 
munificent gifts demand ? Why, he would have been the 
orator of our nation.” 

“ Ay, John,” replied Mr. Somers, “ but it is the solemn 
truth of his theme that gives him half his power.” _ 

“It is as if I had heard the Dies ira. chanted,” said 
Adele. 

As they walked on towards the house in silence, they 
encountered a company of persons, of which Mr. Dubois 
and the missionary were the centre. These two were con- 
versing quite composedly, but the surrounding groups 
seemed to be under some excitement. 

At the dispersion of the gathering at the Grove, as Mr. 
Norton was on his way to the quiet of his own room, Mr. 
Dubois had presented to him the bearer of a dispatch from 
Fredericton. The messenger said he had been instructed 
to announce that the Provincial Court was in session in that 
city, and that a complaint had been lodged with the grand 
jury against Mr. Norton, and he was requested to meet 
the charge immediately. 

Mr. Norton was surpnsed, but said very calmly — 

“ Can you inform me, sir, what the charge is ! ” 

“ It is a*charge for having preached in the Province of 
- Brunswick, without a license.” 

“ Can you tell me by whom the charge was brought?” 


MIKAMICHI. 


153 


“ By the reverend Francis Dinsraoor, a clergyman of the 
Established Church, of the parish of . 

“ Yes, sir. I understand. He is your neighbor on 
the other side of the river, Mr. Dubois. Well, sir,” con- 
tinued Mr. Norton, “ I suppose you have just arrived and 
stand in need of refreshment. I will confer with you, by 
and by.” 

The messenger retraced his steps towards the house. 

In the mean time, a few rough-looking men had over- 
heard the conversation, taken in its import, and now came 
about Mr. Dubois and Mr. Norton, making inquiries. 

Tom Hunkins, more noted for profanity, hard drinking, 
and gambling, than any man in the settlement, and 
whom Mr. Norton at the risk of making him a violent 
enemy, had on one occasion severely reprehended for tl:e 
pernicious influence he exerted in the community, — here 
interposed a word of counsel. He was just speaking, 
when Adele, Mr. Somers, and John, joined the group. 

“ Neow ef I may be so bold,” said Tom, “ I would n’t 
go anyst the cussed court. It’s nothin’ at all, but the 
meanness and envy o’ that rowdy priest over the river 
there. He ’s jest mad, cos the people come over here to 
git fodder instid o’ goin’ to his empty corncrib. They like 
to hear yer talk better than they do him, and that ’s the 
hull on it. I ’d let the condemed critter and court whizz, 
both on ’ em. I would ’t go aynst ’em.” 

“ But Mr. Hunkins,” said Mr. Norton, “ I must attend 
to this matter. I am exposed to a fine of fifty pounds and 
six months’ imprisonment, for breaking a law enacted by 
he Assembly of His Majesty’s Province.” 


154 


MiRAjncm. 


“I’ll tell ye what ye can do, parson. I’ll take and 
put ye right through to Chartham this very night, and ye 
ken take a schooner that I know is going to sail to-morrow 
for Eastport. That ’ill land ye safe in the State of Maine, 
where ye ken stay till the Court is over, and the fox has 
gone back to his hole, and then we ’ll give ye a lift back 
agin and ye ken go on with yer preachin’.” 

“ I thank you for your kind feeling towards me, Mr. 
Hunkins, but I must go to Fredericton. The case is just 
this. I knew, before I came to Miramichi, that the gov- 
ernment was not particularly favorable to dissenting min- 
isters, and also that the Assembly had passed this law. 
But I had heard of the condition of this people and felt 
constrained to come here, by my desire to serve Christ, my 
Master and my King. By so doing, I took all the risks in 
the case. Now, if I, for conscience’s sake, have violated 
an unjust law, I am willing to pay the penalty. I have 
not wittingly done harm to any of His Majesty’s subjects, 
or endeavored to draw them away from their loyalty. I 
will therefore go with the messenger to Fredericton and 
meet this charge. I am not afraid of what evil-minded 
men can do unto me.” 

“ That is right, Mr. Norton,” exclaimed Adele, who 
had been listening attentively to his words. “Will you 
not go with him, father?” 

After a moment’s meditation, Mr. Dubois replied, “ If 
it is Mr. Norton’s wish. I have a friend who is a member 
of the Assembly. A favorable statement of the case from 
him, would doubtless have much weight with the jury.” 


MIRAMICHI. 


155 


“ Thank you, sir, thank you. Such an arrangement 
would doubtless be of great service to me. I should be 
exceedingly grateful for it.” 

Micah, who had been hitherto a quiet listener to the 
colloquy, now gave a short, -violent cough, and said, 
“ Captin’, it’s kinder queer I should happen to hev an 
arrand reound to Fredericton to-morrow. But I’ve jest 
thought that, as long as I’m a goin’ to be in the place, I 
might as well step in afore the jury and say what I know 
abeout the case.” 

“ Thank you, Micah. I believe you have been present 
whenever I have discoursed to our friends, and know pre- 
cisely what I have said to them.” 

“ Well, I guess I dew, pooty nigh.” 

The affair being thus arranged, the party separated. 

Mr. Norton informed the messenger of his intention, 
early in the morning, to depart with him for Fredericton. 

He then retired to his room, spent an hour in reflecting 
upon the, course he had adopted, examined faithfully the 
motives that influenced him, and finally came to the 
conclusion that he was in the right path. He firmly 
believed God had sent him to Miramichi to preach the 
gospel, and resolved that he would not be driven from 
thence by any power of men or evil spirits. He then 
committed himself to the care of the Almighty Being, and 
slept securely under the wing of his love. 

In the mean time, there was a high breeze of excitement 
blowing through the settlement, the people taking up the 
matter and making common cause with Mr. Norton. He 


156 


MIRAMICHI. 


seemed to have fairly won their good will, although he had 
not yet induced them, except in a few instances, to reform 
their habits of life. They ventilated their indignation 

against the unfortunate clergyman of the parish of , 

in no measured terms. 

; There was, however, one exception to the kind feeling 
manifested by the settlers, towards the missionary at this 
time, in the person of Mrs. McNab. She informed Mrs. 
Campbell, as they were discussing the matter before retiring 
for the night, that it was just what she had expected. 

“ Na gude comes o’ sech hurry-flurry kind o’ doctrenes 
as that man preaches. I dinna believe pussons can be 
carried into the kingdom o’ heaven on a wharlwind, as 
he’d have us to think.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Campbell, who had been much 
impressed with Mr. Norton’s teachings, “ I don’t think 
there’s much likelihood of many folks round here, bein 
kerried that way, or any other, into the kingdom. And I 
shall always bless that man for his kindness to the children 
when they were so sick, and for the consoling way in which 
he talked to me at that time.” 

“ His doctrenes are every way delytarious, and you’ll 
find that’s the end on’t,” said Mrs. McNab. 

To this dogmatic remark Mrs. Campbell made no 
reply. 

Sitting in the Madonna room, that evening, John re- 
marked to Mr. Somers, “ I have^ growing admiration for 
your missionary. Did you notice what he said, in reply to 
the man who counselled him to fly Into Maine and so evade 


MIEAaUCHI. 


157 


the charge brought against him ? Small things sometimes 
suggest great ones. I was reminded of what Luther said, 
when cited before the diet of Worms, and when his friends 
advised him not to go. ‘ I am lawfully called to appear n 
that city, and thither I will go, in the name of the Lord, 
though as many devils as tiles upon the houses were 
assembled against me.’ ” 

“ Ay, John. There are materials in the character of 
that man for the making of another Luther. Truth, 
courage, power, — he has them all.” 

14 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOE. 

The next morning at an early hour, Mr. Dubois and 
Mr. Norton, accompanied by the bearer of the despatch, 
started for Fredericton. They were joined by Micah, 
whose alleged urgent business in that city proved to be 
nothing more nor less than to lend his aid towards getting 
the missionary out of what he called ‘ ‘ a bad fix ! ” 

Proceeding up the Miramichi River a short distance, they 
came to the portage, where travelling through the wilder- 
ness twenty miles to the Nashwauk, they passed down 
that stream to its junction with the St. John’s River, op- 
posite Fredericton. 

After throwing off the dust of travel and resting some- 
what from their fatigue, the two gentlemen first named, 
went to call on Col. Allen, the friend of whom Mr. 
Dubois had spoken, who was a resident of the Capital. 

He was a man of wealth and consideration in the 
province. Having listened attentively to the statement 
made by Mr. Dubois respecting the arrest of Mr. Norton, 
he promised to do all in his power to secure for him a fair 
trial. 


MIRASnCHI. 


159 


Although a high churchman in principle and feeling, 
he was yet candid and upright in his judgments, and 
happened, moreover, to be well acquainted with the 

character of the clergyman of the parish of , who 

had brought the charge against Mr. Norton. He made 
a few inquiries respecting the evidence the missionary 
could produce of good character in his native State. 

“ It will be well,” he remarked, to call on his Excel- 
lency, the Governor, and put him in possession of these 
facts. It is possible the case may take some shape in 
which his action may be called for. It will do no harm 
for him to have a knowledge of the circumstances from 
yourselves, gentlemen. Will you accompany me to the 
Government House ? ” 

The Government House, a large building of stone, is 
situated near the northern entrance to the city. With Its 
extensive wings, beautiful grounds and military appoint- 
ments, it presents an imposing appearance. In the rear of 
the mansion, a fine park slopes down to the bank of the 
river, of which it commands frequent and enchanting views. 

The three gentlemen alighted at the entrance to the 
grounds, opening from the broa<J street, and after passing 
the ^try were conducted by a page to the Governor’s 
office. His Excellency shortly appeared and gave them 
a courteous welcome. In brief terms Col. Allen presented 
to him the case. 

The Governor remarked in reply, that the law prohib- 
iting persons from publicly preaching, or teaching, without 
a license, had been passed many years ago, in consequence 


160 


MIKAMICHI. 


of disturbances made by a set of fanatics, who promul- 
gated among the lower classes certain extravagant dogmas 
by which they were led on even to commit murder, think- 
ing they were doing God service. The purpose of the law, 
he said, having been thus generally understood, few, if any 
clergymen j belonging either to the Established Church or 
to Dissenting congregations, had applied for a license, and / 
this Avas the first complaint to his knowledge, that had been 
entered, alleging a violation of the law. He said, also, 
that from the statement Col. Allen had made, he appre- 
hended no danger to Mr. Norton, as he thought the charge 
brought against him could not be maintained. 

“ I advise you, sir,” said he, turning to the missionary, 

“ to go to the Secretary’s oflSce and take the oath of alle- 
giance to the government. Mr. Dubois states you are 
exerting a good influence at Miramichi. I will see that you 
receive no further annoyance.” 

“ I thank your Honor,” Mr. Norton replied, “ for your 
kind assurances, and I declare to you, sir, that I have the 
most friendly feelings towards His Majesty’s subjects and 
government, as I have given some proof in coming to 
labor at Miramichi. Bul^ sir, I cannot conscientiously take 
an oath of allegiance to your government, when m^ love 
and duty are pledged to another. I earnestly hope that 
the present amicable relations may ever continue to exist 
between the two powers, but, sir, should any conflict arise 
between them, the impropriety of my having taken such 
an oath would become too evident.” 

“ You are right. You are right, my good sir,” replied 


MlRAMICIIl. 


161 


the Governor. “ I promise you that as long as you con- 
tinue your work in the rational mode you have already 
pursued, making no effort to excite treasonable feelings 
towards His Majesty’s government, you shall not be inter- 
fered with.” ' 

His Excellency then made numerous inquiries of Mr. 
Dubois and Mr. Norton, respecting the condition of society, 
business, means of education and religious worship in the 
Miramichi country. He already knew Mr. Dubois by 
reputation, and was gratified to have this opportunity of 
meeting him. He inquired of the missionary how he 
happened to light upon New Brunswick as the scene of his 
religious labors, and listened to Mr. Norton’s account of his 
‘ ‘ eall ” to Miramachi with unaffected interest. 

The next day the case was brought before the Jury. 
The charge having been read, Mr. Dubois appeared in 
behalf of the missionary, testifying to his good character 
and to the nature of his spiritual teachings. He also pre- 
sented to the Jury three commissions from the Governor 
of the State of , which Mr. Norton had in his pos- 

session, one of them being a commission as Chaplain of 
the Kegiment to which he belonged. Inquiry being 
made whether Mr. Norton’s preaching was calculated to 
dlsaffect subjects towards the government, no evidence was 
found to that effect. On the contrary, witnesses were 
brought to prove the reverse. 

Mr. Mummychog, aware before he left Miramichi, that 
a number of his compeers in that region, who had been in 
the habit of coming to the Grove to hear Mr. Norton 
140 


162 




discourse, were just now at Fredericton, on lumbering 
business, had been beating up these as recruits for the oc- 
casion, and now brought forward quite an overpowering 
weight of evidence in favor of the defendant. These men 
testified that he had preached to them the importance ot 
fulfilling their duties as citizens, telling them, that unless 
they were good subjects to the civil government, they 
couldvnot be good subjects in Christ’s kingdom. They 
testified, also, that they had frequently heard him pray in 
public, for the health, happiness, and prosperity of His 
Majesty, and for blessings on the Lord Lieutenant-Gov- 
ernor. 

After a few minutes of conversation, the Jury dismissed 
the charge. 

The party retired, much gratified at the favorable con- 
clusion of what might, under other circumstances, have 
proved to the missionary an annoying affair. Mr. Norton 
warmly expressed his gratitude to Mr. Dubois, as having 
been the main instrument, in securing this result. He 
also cordially thanked Micah and his friends, for their 
prompt efforts in his behalf. 

“ Twant much of a chore, any heow,” said Micah. “ I 
never could stan’ by and see any critter put upon by 
another he’ d done no harm to, and I never will.” 

As they returned to the hotel, Mr. Dubois remarked 
that this journey to the Capital, after all, might not 
be without good results. 

“ You made,” he said to Mr. Norton, “ an extremely fa- 
vorable impression on the minds of several gentlemen, who 


MIR.UIICin. 


163 


wield power in the province, and should you be subjected to 
future persecutions, you will probably be able to secure 
their protection.” 

“ Possibly — possibly. I am grateful, if I have in any 
way secured the good will of those gentlemen. I was par- 
ticularly impressed by their dignity, affability, and readiness 
to oblige yourself. But, my dear sir, it is better to trust 
in the Lord than to put confidence in princes.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


MR. LANSDOWNE SUBMITS TO THE INEVITABLE. 

In the meanwhile, a change had come upon John Lans- 
downe. Only a few weeks ago, he was a careless youth, 
of keen and vigorous intellectual powers, satiated with 
hooks and tired of college walls, with the boy spirit in the 
ascendant within him. His eye was wide open and 
observant, and his ringing laugh was so merry, that it 
brought an involuntary smile upon any one who might 
chance to hear its rich peals. His talk was rapid, gay, and 
brilliant, with but the slightest dash of sentiment, and his 
manner frank and fearless. 

But now his bearing had become quiet.and dignified ; his 
conversation was more thoughtful and deep-flowing, less 
dashing and free ; he spoke in a lower key ; his laugh was 
less loud,*but far sweeter and more thrilling ; his eyes had 
grown larger, darker, deeper, and sometimes they ^vere 
shadowed with a soft and tender mist, not wont to over- 
spread them before. The angel of Love had touched him, 
and opened a new and living spring in his heart. Boiling 
and bubbling in its hidden recess, an ethereal vapor mounted 
up and mantled those blazing orbs in a dim and dreamy 
veil. A charmed wand had touched every sense, every 


mR^uncm. 


165 


power of his being, and held him fast in a rapturous thrall, 
from which he did not wish to be released. Under the 
spell of this enchantment, the careless boy had passed into 
the reflective man. 

Stories are told of knights errant, in the times of INIerlin 
and the good King Arthur, who, while ranging the world 
in quest of adventures, were bewitched by lovely wood 
fairies or were lulled into delicious slumber by some syren’s 
song, or were shut up in pleasant durance in enchanted 
castles. Accounts of similar character are found, even in 
the pages of grave chroniclers of modern date, to say 
nothing of what books of fiction tell, and what we observe 
with our own eyes, in the actual world. The truth is, 
Love smites his victims, just when and where he finds 
them. Mr. Lansdowne’s case then, is not an unprecedented 
one. The keen Damascus blade,, used to pierce our hero 
and bring him to the pitiful condition of the conquered, had 
been placed in the hand of. Adele. Whether Love in- 
tended to employ that young lady in healing the cruel 
wound she had made, remains to be seen. 

At the beginning of their acquaintance, they had found 
a common ground of interest in the love of music. 

They both sang well. Adele played the piano and John 
discoursed on the flute. From these employments, they 
passed to books. ..They rummaged Mr. Dubois’s library 
and read together, selected passages from favorite authors. 
Occasionally, John gave her little episodes of his past life, 
his childish, his school, and college days. In return, A.dele 
told him of her term at Halifax in the convent ; of tho 


166 


MIIlA3IICm. 


routine of life and study there; of her friendships, and 
very privately, of the disgust she took, while there, to 
what she called the superstitions, the ihummeries and idol- 
atry of the Catholic church. 

When Mr. Somers had acquired strength enough for 
exercise on horseback, Mrs. Dubois, Adele, and John were 
accustomed to accompany him. Daily, about an hour after 
breakfast, the little party might have been seen fitting oflf 
for a canter through the forest. * In the evening, the group 
was joined by Mr. Dubois and the missionary. The atmos- 
phere being exceedingly dry, both by day and night, they 
often sat and talked by moonlight, on a balcony, built over 
the large, porch -like entrance to the main door of the house. 

Thus John and Adele daily grew into a more familiar 
acquaintance. 

During the absence of Mr. Dubois at Fredericton, Mr. 
Somers announced to John that he felt himself stronsT 
enough to undertake the ride through the wilderness, and 
proposed that, as soon as their host returned, they should 
start on their journey home. 

With increasing strength, Mr. Somers had become 
impatient to return to the duties he had so summarily 
forsaken. 

He wished to test, in active life, his power to maintain 
the new principles he had espoused and to ascertain if the 
nobler and holier hopes that now animated him, would give 
him peace, strength, and buoyancy, amid the temptations 
and trials of the future. 

John, for several days, had been living in a delicious 


- IIIRAMICHI. 


167 


reverie, and was quite startled by the proposition. Though 
aware how anxiously his parents were awaiting his return, 
and that there was no reasonable excuse for farther delay, he 
inwardly repudiated the thought of departure. He even 
indicated a wish to, delay the journey beyond the time Mr. 
Somers had designated. A piercing look of Inquiry from 
that gentleman recalled him to his senses, and after a 
moment of hesitation, he assented to the arrangement. 
But the beautiful dream was broken. He was thrown at 
once into a tumult of emotion. Unwilling to expose his 
agitation to the observation of others, he went directly to 
his room ^nd locked himself in. 

After sitting half an hour with his face buried in his 
hands, the chaos of his soul formed itself into definite shape. 
His first clear thought was this, — “Without Adele, my life 
will be a blank. She is absolutely necessary to my exist- 
ence. I must win her.” A very decided conclusion cer- 
tainly, for a young gentleman to reach, who when he ar- 
rived at this house, but a few weeks before, seemed to be 
enjoying a liberal share of hope and happiness. The ques- 
tion arose. Does she care for me? Does she regard me 
with any special interest beyond the kindness and courtesy 
she accords to all her father’s guests ? On this point, he 
could not satisfy himself. He was torn by a conflict of 
doubt, hope, and fear. He thought her not averse to him. 
She conversed, sang, and rode with him as if it were agree- 
able to her. Indeed she seemed to enjoy his society. But 
she was equally pleased to converse and ride with Mr. 
Somefs and good Mr. Norton. He was unable to deter- 


168 


MIRAMICHT. . 


mine tbe sentiments she really cherished and remained 
tossed to and fro in painful suspense and agitation. 

A couple of hours passed and found him in the . same 
state. Mr. Somers came and tapped upon his door. Un- 
willing to awaken a suspicion of any unusual discomposure, 
John opened it and let him in. 

“ Hope I don’t intrude,” said Mr. Somers, “ but I want 
you to look at the horse Mummychog has brought for me.’» 

“ Ah I yes,” said John, and seizing his hat, he accom- 
panied his friend to the stables. 

Their observations over, they returned to the house. 

“ You have had a fit of solitude, quite unusual, my boy,” 
said Mr. Somers, planting his hand on John’s shoulder. 

“Yes, quite. For a novelty, I have been collecting my 
thoughts.” John meant to speak in a gay, indifferent tone, 
and thought he had done so, but this was a mistake. 

Besides he had in fact a decidedly conscious look. 

“If you have any momentous affiiir on hand, I advise 
you to wait, until you reach home before you decide upon 
it, my boy,” said Mr. Somers, with a light laugh, but a 
strong emphasis upon the word, home. ' 

And he passed up-stairs, leaving John, standing bewil- 
dered in the hall-door. 

“Ah ! Ned has discovered it all,” said he to himself. 

* But he was too much occupied with other thoughts to be 
annoyed by it now. 

Mr. Somers’s last remark had turned the course of his 
meditations somewhat. He began to question what opinion 
his parents might' have in regard to the sentiments he en- 


MIR.V]\UCIII. 


169 


tertained towards Adele, and the plan lie had formed of 
endeavoring to secure her love. He knew, they considered 
him as yet hardly out of boyhood. He had indeed, until 
within a few weeks, looked upon himself in that light. 

Not yet freed from college halls, — would they not 
think him foolish and precipitate? Would they approve his 
choice ? 

But these queries and others of like character he disposed 
of summarily and decisively. He felt that, no matter how 
recently he had passed the limits of boyhood and become 
a man, it was no boy’s passion that now swayed his whole 
being, it seemed to him that, should he make the effort, 
he could not expel it from his soul. But he did not wish 
to make the effort. Adele was worthy the love of any man. 

It had been his fortune to find a jewel, when he least ex- 
pected it. Why should he not avail himself of the golden 
opportunity and secure the treasure? Would his parents 
approve his choice? Certainly, Adele was “ beautiful as the 
Houries and wise as Zobeide.” Considerations of policy and 
expediency, which sometimes appear on the mental horizon 
of older people, were quite unknown to our young hero. 

So he returned to the only aspect of the case that gave 
him real disquiet. He had fears respecting Adele’s senti- 
ments towards himself, and doubts of his ability to inspire 
,in her a love equal to his own. But he must be left for 
the present to adjust himself to his new situation as best 
he can. • 


15 


CHAPTER XXI. 


TROUBLED HEARTS. 

On the afternoon of the day following, Adele was sit- 
ing alone in the parlor. She held a book in her hand, but 
evidently it did not much interest her, as her eyes wan- 
dered continually from its pages and rested, abstractedly, 
upon any object they happened to meet. 

She felt lonely, and wondered why Mr. Lansdowne did 
not, as usual at that hourj come to the parlor. She 
thought how vacant and sad her life would be, after he and 
Mr. Somers had departed from Miramichi. She queried 
whether she should ever meet them again ; whether, indeed, 
either of them, after a short time, would ever think of the 
acquaintances they had formed here, except when recalled 
by some accident of memory, or association. She feared 
they might wholly forget all these scenes, fraught with so 
much interest and pleasure to her, and that fear took pos- 
session of her heart and made her almost miserable.- She 
strove to turn her mind upon her favorite project of return- 
ing with her parents^ to France. But, notwithstanding 
her efforts, her thoughts lingered around the departing 
gentlemen, and the close of her acquaintance with them. 


MIRAMICm. 


171 


Suddenly she heard Mr. Lansdowne's step approaching 
the room. Conscious that her heart was at this moment 
in her eyes, she hastily threw the book upon the table. 
Taking her embroidery, she bent her attention closely 
upon it, thus veiling the tell-tale orbs, with their long 
dark lashes. 

She looked up a moment, as he entered, to give him a 
nod of recognition. A flash of lightning will reveal at 
once the whole paraphernalia of a room, even to its re- 
motest corners ; or disclose the scenery of an entire land- 
scape, in its minutest details, each previously wrapt by the 
darkness in perfect mystery ; so, one single glance of the 
eye may' unveil and discover a profound secret, that has 
hitherto never been indicated, by either word or motion. 
By that quick glance, Adele saw Mr. Lansdowne’s face, 
very pale with the struggle he had just gone through, and 
a strange light glowing from his eyes, that caused her to 
withdraw her own immediately. 

Her heart beat rapidly, — she was conscious that a tide 
of crimson was creeping up to her cheek, and felt herself 
tremulous in every limb, as Mr. Lansdowne approached 
and drew a seat near her. But pride came to her aid. 
One strong effort of the will, and the young creature, 
novice as she was in the arts of society, succeeded in 
' partially covering the flutter and agitation of spirit caused 
by the sudden discovery of her lover’s secret. 

“When do you expect your father’s return. Miss 
Adele ? ” inquired Mr. Lansdowne. 

“ In a day or two,” was the reply. 


172 


MIRAMICm. 


“ Do you know that my uncle and I will be obliged to 
leave our newly-found friends here, soon after your father 
gets home ? ” 

“ I know,” replied Adele, with apparent calmness, “ that 
Mr. Somers’s health has greatly improved and I supposed 
you would probably go away soon.” 

“ Pardon me. Miss Adele,” said John, in a voice that 
betrayed his emotion, “ but shall you miss us at all ? Shall 
you regret our absence ? ” 

Again Adele’s heart bounded quickly. She felt irritated 
and ashamed of its tumult. 

By another strong effort, she answered simply, “ Cer- 
tainly, Mr. Lansdowne, we shall all miss you. You have 
greatly enlivened our narrow family circle. We shall be 
very sorry to lose you.” 

How indifferent she Is, thought John. She does not 
dream of my love. 

“ Miss Adele,” he exclaimed passionately, “it will be 
the greatest calamity of my life to leave you.” 

For a moment, the young girl was silent. His voice 
both thrilled and fascinated her. Partly proud, partly shy, 
like the bird who shuns the snare set for It, only flutterino- 
its wings over the spot for an Instant, and then flying to a 
greater distance, Adele bestirred her powers and resolved 
not to suffer herself to be drawn into the meshes. She 
felt a new, strange influence creeping over her, to which 
she was half afraid, half too haughty to yield without a 
struggle. 

“ Mr. Lansdowne, I am happy to learn you place some 


MIRAJMICHI. 


173 


value on our friendship, as we do on yours. But surely, 
your own home, such as you have described it to me, must 
be the most attractive spot on eartli to you.” 

“ Is it possible,” said Mr. Lansdowne vehemently, taking 
her hand and holding it fast in his, “ that you cannot un- 
derstand me, — that you do not know that I love you 
infinitely more than father, or mother, or any human 
creature ? ” 

Surprised at the abruptness of this outburst, bewildered 
and distressed by her own eonflicting emotions, Adele 
knew not what to say, and wished only to fly away into 
solitude that she might collect her scattered powers. 

“ Mr. Lansdowne, I am not prepared for this. Let me 
go. I must leave you,” she exclaimed. 

Suddenly drawing her hand from hisj she fled to her own 
room, locked the door and burst into a passionate flood of 
tears. Poor child I Her lover with his unpractised hand, 
had opened a new chapter in her life, too precipitately. 
She was not prepared for its revelations, and the shock had 
shaken her a little too rudely. 

John remained sitting, white and dumb, as if a thunder- 
bolt had fallen upon him. 

“ Gone ! gone ! ” he exclaimed at length, “ she does not 
love me ! And, fool that I was, I have frightened her from 
me forever 1 ” * 

He bowed his head upon the table and uttered a groan 
of despair. 

Mr. Lansdowne returned to the solitude of his own room, 
suflSciently miserable. He feared he had oflTended Adele 
150 


174 


MIRAMICIII. 


past healing. Looking over the events of the week, he 
thought he could perceive that she had been teased by 
his attentions, and that she wished to indicate tills by the 
coolness of her manner and words to him, during their 
recent interview. And he had recklessly, though unwit- 
tingly, put the climax to her annoyance by this abrupt dis- 
closure of his love. He berated himself unmercifully for 
his folly. For a full hour, he believed that his blundering 
impetuosity had cost him the loss of Adele forever. 

But it is hard for hope to forsake the young. It can 
never wholly leave any soul, except by a slow process of 
bitter disappointment. J ohn saw that he had made a mis- 
take. The strength and tumult of his passion for Adele had 
led him thoughtlessly into what probably appeared to her, 
an attempt to storm the citadel of her heart, and in her pride, 
she had repulsed him. 

He bethought him that there were gentler modes of 
reaching that seat of life and love. He became a tactician. 
He resolved he would, by his future conduct, perhaps by 
some chance Avord, indicate to Adele that he understood 
her repulse and did not intend to repeat his offence. He 
would not hereafter seek her presence unduly, but when 
they were thrown together, would show himself merely 
gentle and brotherly. And then, — he would trust to time, 
to circumstances, to his lucky star, to bring her to his side. 

In the mean time, after her tearf had subsided, Adele 
found, somewhat to her surprise, that this sudden disturb- 
ance of her usual equilibrium came from the very deep 
Interest she felt for Mr. Lansdowne. And, moreover, she 


MmAMicm. 


175 


was annoyed to find it so, and did not at all like to own it 
to herself. Naturally proud, self-relying, and in the habit 
of choosing her own path, she had an instinctive feeling 
that this new passion might lay upon her a certain thrail- 
dom, not congenial to her haughty spirit. This conscious- 
ness made her distant and reserved, when she again met 
Mr. Lansdowne at the tea-table. 

In fact, the manner of each towards the other had wholly 
changed. 

John was calm, respectful, gentle, but made no effort to 
draw Adele’s attention. After tea he asked Mrs. Dubois 
to play backgammon with him. 

Adele worked on hei* embroidery, and Mr. Somers sat 
beside her, sketching on paper with his pencil, various bits of 
ruin and scenery in Europe, mixed up with all sorts of 
grotesque shapes and monsters. Mr. Lansdowne ap- 
peared, all the evening, so composed, so natural, and 
shnply brothei’ly, that when Adele went to her room for the 
nijrht, the Interview of the afternoon seemed almost like a 
dream. She thought that the peculiar reception she had given 
to his avowal, might have quite disenchanted her lover. And 
the thought disturbed her. After much questioning and 
surmising, she went to sleep. 

The next day and the next, Mr. Lansdowne’s manner td- 
' wards Adele continued the same. She supposed he might 
renew the subject of their last conversation, but he did not, 
although several opportunities presented, when he might 
have done so. Occasionally, she strove to read his emotions 
by observing his countenance, but his eyes were averted to 


176 


MIRAMICHI. 


other objects. He no longer glanced towards her. “Ah ! 
well,” said Adele to herself, “ his affection for me could 
not be so easily repulsed, were it so very profound. I 
will care nothing for him.” And yet, somehow, her 
footstep lagged wearily and her eye occasionally gathered 
mists on its brightness. 

It was now the eve of the fifth of October. An unnat- 
ural heat prevailed, consequent on the long drought, the 
horizon was skirted with a smoky haze and the atmosphere 
was exceedingly oppressive. Mrs. Dubois, who was suf- 
fering from a severe headache, sat in the parlor, half burled 
in the cushions of an easy-chair. Adele stood beside her, 
bathing her head with perfumed water, while jMr. Somers, 
prostrated by the weather, lay, apparently asleep, upon a 
sofa. 

“That will do, Adele,” said Mrs. Dubois, making a 
slight motion towards her daughter. “That ‘will do, ma 
cherc, my head is cooler now. Go out and watch for your 
father. He will surely be here to-night.” 

Adele stepped softly out, through the window upon the 
balcony. 

A few minutes after, Mr. Lansdowne came to the parlor 
door, looked in, inquired for Mrs. Dubois’s headache, gazed 
for a moment, at the serene face of the sleeper on the sofii, 
and then, perceiving Adele sitting outside, impelled by an 
irresistible impulse, went out and joined her. 

She was leaning her head upon her hand, with her arm 
supported by a low, rude balustrade, that ran round the 
edge of the balcony, and was looking earnestly up the 


MIRAjMICHI. 


177 


road, to catch the first glimpse of her father. Her counte- 
nance had a subdued, sad expression. She was indeed 
very unhappy. The distance and reserve that had grown 
up so suddenly between herself and Mr. Lansdowue had 
become painful to her. She would have rejoiced to return 
once more to their former habits of frank and vivacious 
conversation. But she waited for him to renew the famil- 
iarity of the past. 

She turned her head towards him as he approached, and 
without raising her eyes, said, “ Good evening, Mr. 
Lansdowne.” He bowed, sat down, and they remained 
several minutes in silence. 

“ I suppose,” said John, at length, making a desperate 
effort to preserve a composure of manner, entirely at vari- 
ance with the tumultuous throbbings of his heart, “ you are 
confident of your father’s return to-night ? ” 

“ O, yes. I look for him every moment. I am quite 
anxious to hear the result of the expedition.” 

“ I am, also. I hope no harm will come to our good 
friend, Mr. Norton. Do you know whether he intends to 
spend the winter here. Miss Adele?” 

“ I think he will return to his family. But we shall 
endeavor to retain him, until we go ourselves.” 

“ You go. Miss Adele,” exclaimed John, unable tocon- 
' ceal his eager interest, “ do you leave here?” 

“ We SO to France next month.” 

“ To France ! ” repeated the young man. 

‘ ‘ ]\Iy father and mother are going to'vislt their early 
home. I shall accompany them.” 


178 


mRA^IICHI. 


John, aroused hy information containing so much of Im- 
portance in regard to Adele’s future, could not restrain 
himself from prolonging the conversation. Adele was 
willing to answer his inquiries, and in a few minutes they 
were talking almost as freely and frankly as in the days 
before Mr. Lansdowne’s unfortunately rash avowal of his 
passion. 

Suddenly a thick cloud of dust appeared in the road, and 
Mr. Dubois, Mr. Norton, and Micah, were soon distin- 
guished turning the heads of their horses towards the house. 

Adele uttered an exclamation of joy, and bounded from 
her seat. As Mr. Lansdowne made way for her to reach 
the window, she glanced for a moment at his face, and there 
beheld again the strange light glowing in his eyes. It 
coftimunicated a great hope to her heart. 

She hastened past him to greet her father. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A MEMORABLE EVENT. 

The morning of the sixth of October dawned. The heat 
of the weather had increased and become wellnigh intol- 
erable. At breakfast, Mr. Dubois* and Mr. Norton gave 
accounts of fires they had seen in various parts of the 
country, some of them not far off, and owing to the prev- 
alence of the forest and the extreme dryness of the trees 
and shrubs, expressed fears of great devastation. 

They united in thinking it would be dangerous for the 
two gentlemen to undertake their journey home, until a 
copious rain should have fallen. 

During the forenoon, the crackling of the fires and the 
sound of falling trees in the distant forest could be distinetly 
heard, announcing that the terrible element was at work. 

Mr. Dubois, accompanied by Mr. Norton and John, . 
ascended the most prominent hills in the neighborhood to 
watch the direction in which the elouds of smoke appeared. 
These observations only confirmed their fears. They 
^warned the people around of the danger, but these paid 
little heed. In the afternoon, the missionary crossed, 
from the Dubois house, on the northern side of the river. 


180 


MIRAMICHI. 


to the southern bank, and explored the country to a con 
siderable distance around. 

In the evening, when the family met in the Madonna 
room, cheerfulness had forsaken the party. The languor 
produced by the heat and the heavily-laden atmosphere, 
solicitude felt for the dwellers in the forest, through which 
the fire was now sweeping, a hoarse rumbling noise like 
distant thunder, occasionally booming on their ears, and 
gloomy forebodings of impending calamity, all weighed 
upon the dispirited group. 

Mr. Norton said it was his firm conviction that God 
was about to display His power in a signal manner to this 
people in order to arouse them to a sense of their guilt. 

Before separating for the night, he requested permission 
to offer up a prayer to heaven. The whole circle knelt, 
while he implored the Great Ruler of all, to take them as 
a fiimily under his protecting love, whether life or death 
awaited them, and that He would, if consistent with His 
great and wise plans, avert His wrath from the people. 

The night was a dismal, and for the most of the family, 
a sleepless one. The morning rose once more, but it 
brought no cheering sound of blessed rain-drops. The air 
was still hot and stifling. 

About noon, the missionary came in from a round of ob- 
servation he had been making, and urged Mr. Dubois to 
take his family immediately to the south bank of the river. 
The fires were advancing towards thgm from the north, 
and would inevitably be upon them soon. He had not been 
able to discover any appearance of fire upon the southern 


MRAMICHI. 


181 


side of the river. It was true the approaching flames 
might be driven, across, but the stream being for some 
distance quite wide, this might not take place. In any 
event, the southern side was the safest, at the present 
moment. He had faith in the instinct of animals, and for 
several hours past he had seen cattle and geese leaving 
their usual places of resort and swimming to the opposite 
shore. 

Mr. Dubois, ^Iso convinced that there was no other 
feasible methocLof escape, hastened to make arrangements 
for immediate departure. 

A mist, tinged with deep purple, now poured in from 
the wilderness and overspread the horizon. A dark cloud 
wrapped the land in a dismal gloom. The heat grew nearly 
insupportable. Rapid explosions, loud and startling noises, 
filled the air, and the forest thrilled and shook with the 
raging flames. Soon a fiery belt encircled them on the 
east, north, aild west, and advancing rapidly, threatened 
to cover the whole area. The river was the only object 
which, by any possibility, could stay its course. 

Then followed a scene of wildest confusion. The people, 
aroused at last to their danger, rushed terrified to the river, 
unmoored their boats and fled across.* Hosts of women, 
whose husbands were absent in the forest, came with their 
^children, imploring to be taken to the other side. The 
Remainder of the day was occupied in this work, and at the 
close of it, most of those living in the Dubois settlement 
had been safely landed on the southern shore ; and there 
they stood huddled together in horror-stricken groups, 
16 


182 


mRAMICHI. 


on the highest points they could reach, watching the 
terrible, yet majestic scene. 

j\Ir. Somers had been occupied in this way all the after- 
noon and was greatly exhausted. As the darkness of night 
shut down upon the scene, he landed a party of women 
and children, who rushed up, precipitately, to join those 
who had crossed before. He had handed the last passenger 
over the edge of the boat, when a sudden faintness, pro- 
duced by the excessive heat and fatigue, overpowered him. 
He tottered backward and fell, striking his head violently 
upon some object in the bottom of the boat. It was a 
deathblow. 

There he lay, with face upturned towards the lurid glare 
that lit up the darkness. The boat nestled about in the 
little cove, rocked upon the waves, presenting the pale 
countenance, now half in shadow, now wholly concealed by 
the overhanging shrubs, and now in full relief, but always 
with a sweet, radiant, immovable calm upon the features, 
in strange contrast to the elemental roar and tumult around 
him. 

In the mean time, the fires drew nearer and nearer 
the northern bank of the river. A strong breeze sprang 
up and immense columns of smoke mounted to the sky. 
Then came showers of ashes, cinders and burning brands. 
At last, a tornado, terrible in fury, arose to mingle its 
horrors with the fire. Thunderbolt on thunderbolt, crash 
on crash rent the air. At intervals of momentary lull in 
the storm, the roar of the flames was heard. Rapidly ad- 
vancing, they shot fiery tongues into every beast lair of the 


MIRABIICHI. 


183 


forest, into every serpent-haunted crevice of the rock, 
sending forth their denizens bellowing and writhing with 
anguish and death ; onward still they rushed licking up 
with hissing sound every rivulet and shallow pond, twisting 
and coiling round the glorious pines, that had battled 
the winds and tempests hundreds of years, but now to be 
snapped and demolished by this new enemy. 

With breathless interest, the inhabitants of the settle- 
ment watched the progress of the flames. The hamlet 
where they lived was situated on a wide point of land, 
around which the Miramichi made an unusually bold 
sweep. Micah’s Grove partly skirted it on the north. 

From the Grove to the river, the forest-trees had been 
cleared, leaving the open space dotted with the houses of 
the settlers. The fire pressed steadily on toward the 
Grove. The destruction of that forest fane, consecrated 
so recently to the worship of God, and the burning of 
their homes and earthly goods seemed inevitable. The 
people, with pale, excited faces, awaited this heart-rending 
spectacle. ** 

* Just at this moment, the tornado, coming from the 
North, with terrific fury, drawing flames, trees, and every 
movable object in its wake, whirling forward with gigantic 
power, suddenly turned in its path, veered towards the 
east, swept past the Grove and past the settlement, leav- 
ing them wholly untouched, and took its destructive course 
onward to the ocean. The people were dumb with amaze- 
, ment. Ruin had seemed so sure that they scarcely trusted 
the evidence of their senses. 


184 


MIEAjMICHI. 


They dared not even think they had been saved from so 
much miseiy. For a time, not a word was uttered, not a 
muscle moved. 

Mr. Mummy chog was the first to recover his .voice. 

“’Tis a maracle ! and nuthin’ else,” he exclaimed, 
“ and we’ve jest got to thank Otiptin’ Norton for it. He’s 
been a prayin’ ut we might be past by, all ’long and ’t is 
likely the Lord has heerd him. ‘ Tain’t on eour own ac- 
ceounts, my worthy feller-sinners, that we’ve been spared. 
Mind ye remember that.'’' 

The people in their joy gathered around the missionary, 
and united with Micah, in acknowledging their belief, that 
his prayers had averted from them this great calamity. 
For a moment, their attention was distracted from the still 
raging horrors of the scene by the sense of relief from 
threatened danger. 

It was during this brief lull of intense anxiety and ex- 
pectation, that our friends first became aware of the absence 
of INIr. Somers. They had supposed, of course, that he was 
standing somewhere among the groups of people, his at- 
tention riveted, like their own, upon the scene before them. 
Adele first woke to the consciousness that he was not with 
them. 

She turned her head and explored with earnest gaze the 
people around. She could see distinctly by the intense 
red light, nearly every countenance there, but did not 
recognize that of Mr. Somers. A painful anxiety immedi- 
ately seized her, which she strove in vain to conceal. She 
approached near where Mr. Lansdowne stood, by the side 


MIRAMICIII. 


185 


of her mother, gazing after the fire, placed her hand lightly 
on his arm, and asked, “ Can you tell me where Mr. 
Somers is to be found ? ” 

“Mr. Somers! yes, — Ned. Where is he?” he ex- 
claimed, turning, half bewildered by her question, and look- 
ing in her face. 

In an instant, the solicitude her features expressed, 
passed into his own, the same sudden presentiment of evil 
possessed him. 

Drawing Adele’s arm hurriedly into his, he said, “ please 
go with me to seek him.” 

Hastening along, they went from one to another, making 
inquiries. It appeared that Mr. Somers had not been seen 
for several hours. 

Immediately, the whole company took the alarm and the 
search for him commenced. 

John and Adele, after fruitless efforts among the houses, 
at length took their way to the river bank. -As they were 
hastening forward, a woman standing upon a rock over- 
hanging the path they pursued, told them that Mr. Somers 
brought herself and children over in the boat, just at 
dark, — that she had not seen him since, and she remem- 
bered now, that she did not see him come up from the river 
after he landed them. 

“Lead us to the spot where you left the 'boat,” said 
Adele. “ Go on as quickly as you can.” 

The woman descended from her perch upon the rock and 
plunged before them into the path. 

“ I remember now,” she said with sudden compunctions, 
16 <» 


181 ) 


jMIRAMICIII. 


at her own selfish indifference, “ that the gentleman looked 
pale and seemed to be dreadful tired like.” 

Neither John nor Adele made reply, and the won^m 
hurried on. In a few minutes, a sudden turn in the path 
brought them to the little cove where the boat still lay. 

The woman first caught sight of the wan fiice in the 
bottom of the boat, and uttered a scream of horror. The 
lips of the others were frozen into silence by the dread 
spectacle. 

Scarcely a moment seemed to have passed, before John 
rushed down into the water, reached the boat, raised thence 
the lifeless form, bore it to the shore and laid the dripping 
head into the arms of Adele, who seated herself on the 
grass to receive it. 

“ Go quickly,” she said to the woman, “go for Dr. 
Wright. I saw him only a moment ago. Find him and 
bring him here.” 

John threw himself upon his knees and began chafing 
Mr. Somers’s hands. “ He is dead ! he is dead ! ” he whis- 
pered, in a voice, hoarse and unnatural with fear and 
anxiety. 

“ Let us hope not,” said AdMe in a tone of tenderness. 
“Perhaps it is only a swoon. We will convey him to 
some shelter and restore him.” And she wrung the rain 
from his curls of long brown hair. 

John’s finger was upon Mr. Somers’s wrist. “ It will 
break my mother’s heart,” he said, in the same hoarse whis- 
per. At that moment. Dr. Wright’s voice was heard. He 
placed himself, without a word, upon the grass, looked at 


MIKAMICin. 


187 


the pale face, unfastened the dripping garments, thrust his 
hand in beneath them, and laid it upon the young man’s 
heart. 

“ He is dead ! ” said Dr. Wright. “ Friends, get a bit 
of canvas and a blanket and take him to some house, till 
day breaks.” 

John, stupefied with horror and grief, still knelt by Mr. 
Somers, chafing his hands and wringing the water from his 
wet garments. At length, Mr. Dubois gently roused him 
from his task, telling him they would now remove their 
friend to a house, where he might be properly cared for. 

“ Let me lift him, ” said Micah to the young man. But 
John shook his head and stooping, raised Mr. Somers and 
laid him on the canvas as gently as if he were a sleeping 
infant. 

Mr. Dubois, the missionary, John, and Micah conveyed 
the precious charge. The Doctor, with Mrs. Dubois and 
Adele followed in melancholy silence. The crowd came 
behind. The terrific events of the night had made the 
people quiet, thoughtful, and sympathetic. 

Once, after the prolonged, clinging gaze of each upon 
the face of the sleeper, the eyes of the missionary and John 
met. ^ 

“ ]My dear young man,” said Mr. Norton, in a low, 
emphatic voice, “ God has taken him in mercy. The dear 
friend whom we loved, is himself satisfied, I doubt 
not. May the Eternal Father grant us all at the end of 
our course here a like blessed deliverance. Amen.” 

John looked in the good man’s face, as if he but half 


.188 


muAJiiciii. 


understood his words, and fixed his eyes again upon Mr. 
Somers. 

At length, the party reached a house near the river bank, 
where they deposited the dead. 

Mrs. McNab, who had followed close on their footsteps, 
when they reached the door, drew Adele aside and said, 
“ Naw, Miss Ady, I want the preevaleege o’ trying to re- 
soositate that puir gentelman. It wad be like rasin’ the 
dead, but there ’ll be nae harm in try in’, to be sure.” 

“ He is dead. The doctor says so. Aunt Patty.” And 
Adele turned away quickly. 

But Mrs. McNab caught her shawl and held it. 

“Naw, Miss Ady, dinna turn awa’ fram a puir body, 
that was overtook ance or twice with the* whiskey , when 
a was tired and worrit for want o’ sleep. I wad nae ha’ 
hurt a hair o’ the gentelman’s head. An’ I wad like the 
preevaleege o’ wrappin’ some blankets round him an’ puttin’ 
some bottles o’ hot water to his feet.” 

Adele, who had listened more patiently than she 
was wont, now turned and glancing at Aunt Patty, saw 
that she really looked humble and wishful, and two great 
tears were in her eyes. ' •' 

“ M ell, I will see,” said she, struck with this new phase 
of Mrs, jNlcNab’s countenance. She went into the apart- 
ment, where they had just laid Mr. Somers upon a bed. 

In a few minutes, she returned. 

“ The doctor says it will be of no use. Aunt Patty. 
But ]\Ir. Lansdowne would like to make an attempt to 
restore him. So come, mamma and I will help you.” 


MIRA3IICHI. 


189 


Notwithstanding Mrs. McNab’s subdued state of mind 
and her genuine, unselfish wish to do all in her power to 
"bring consciousness to the stricken form, she could not 
avoid, as she made one application after another, making 
also a few indicative observations to Mrs. Dubois. 

‘ ‘ Did ye hear what the preacher said to the young mon 
as we cam’ alang ? He ’s a mighty quick way o’ desmeesin 
a’ bonnie creetur like this out o’ the warld and sayin’ he ’s 
satisfied aboot it.” 

“ That was not what the missionary said, Mrs. Mc- 
Nab,” replied Mrs. Dubois. “ He said that Mr. Somers is 
happy now. He is in Paradise, and we must not wish him 
back. He is satisfied to be with Jesus and the angels and 
his own mother. That is what he meant. And does he 
not look satisfied ? See his blissful countenance ! ” 

Mrs. Dubois leaned over him a moment, and thinking of 
his sister, Mrs. Lansdowne, parted his hair with her pale, 
slender fingers and imprinted a kiss on his forehead. 

All efforts to restore warmth, or life to that marble form 
were in vain, and at length they covered his face gently, 
until the day-dawn. 

John sat by the bedside, his head buried in his hands, 
until morning. He thought over all his past comp’cinion- 
ship with this youthful Uncle Ned, of his pleasantness, 
wit and fascination, of his generous spirit, of his love for 
his mother and himself, and wondered at the awful strange- 
ness that had thus fallen, in a moment, between them. 
Then the thought of his mother’s bitter grief swept over 
him like a flood and nearly unmanned him. Like the 


190 


MIRAmCHI. 


drowning man, his brain was stimulated to an unwonted 
activity. He lived over again his whole life, in a few min- 
utes of time. This dread Power, who had never crossed 
his path before, shocked him inexpressibly. Who of the 
young, unstricken by sorrow, ever associates death with 
himself or with those he loves, till the Arch Reaper coqjes 
some day and cuts down and garners his precious treasure ? 

John' had heard of death, but he had heard of it just as 
he had heard of the poisonous Upas-tree, growing on some 
distant ocean island, or of an evil star, under whose .bale- 
ful influence he might never fall. 

The young live as if this life -were immortal. So much 
the more bitter their experience, when they wake up from 
the delusion. 

The others of the party were gathered in an adjoining 
room, gazing silently at the scene without. It was fearful, 
yet sublime. The wliole* northern side of the Miramiclii 
river, for over one hundred miles, had become involved in 
one mighty sheet of flame, which was sweeping on in 
swift destruction to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The river 
boiled with the fierce heat and tossed its foamins: waters, 
filled with its now lifeless inhabitants, to the shore. The 
fire was fed by six thousand square miles of primeval for- 
est, — a dense growth of resinous trees, — by houses and 
barns filled with crops, and by thriving towns upon the 
river’s bank. 

Above all, the people could not put aside the horrible 
truth, that hundreds of men, women, and children, — their 
friends and their acquaintances, — were perishing by the all- 


MIRAMICHI. 


191 


consuming element. They could not exclude from fancy, 
the agonized and dying shrieks of those dear to them, and 
the demoniac light shone on countenances, expressing 
emotions of pity, grief, horror, and despair. 

While the missionary sat there waiting for the day, he 
recalled with startling distinctness the wild dream he 
dreamed, on that first night he spent at the Dubois House. 
Of course, his belief in foregleams of future events was 
confirmed by the scenes transpiring around him. 

Mrs. Dubois sat near him, her countenance expressing 
profound grief. 

‘ ‘ The dear young man ! ” she said. ‘ ‘ How sad and 
awful thus to die ! ” 

“ My dear madam,” said Mr. Norton, “let us not 
mourn as those who have no hope. Our beloved friend, 
brilliant and susceptible, aspiring and tender, was illy fitted 
for the rude struggle of life. It is true he might have 
fought his way through, girt with the armor of Christian • 
faith and prayer, as many others, like him, have done. 
But the fiirht would have been a hard one. So he has been 
kindly taken home. Sad and awful thus J:o die? Say 
rather, infinitely blest the God-protected soul, thus snatched 
away from this terrific uproar of natural elements into the 
sphere of majestic harmonies, of stupendous yet peaceful 
powers.” B 

At daybreak the little community took to their boats, 
crossed the river and re-entered once more the dwellings 
they had but a few hours before left, never expecting to 
return to them again. Some went home and gathered 


192 


MIRAJinCHI. 


their families in unbroken numbers around them. Others, 
whoso husbands and sons had been absent in the forest at 
the time of the breaking out of the fire, over whose fate 
remained a terrible uncertainty, gathered in silence around 
lonely hearths. The terrors of the past night were, to 
such, supplemented by days and even weeks of heart- 
breaking anxiety and suspense, closed at last by the 
knowledge of certain bereavement. 

All had been deeply impressed with the horror of the 
scene, and sobered into thoughtfulness. A few felt truly 
grateful to the Most High for their wonderful preservation. 


CHAPTER XXm. 


9 


THE SEPAEATION. 

With the morning light and the return to the settle- 
ment, Mr. Lansdowne awoke to a consciousness of the 
duty immediately before him, that of making arrange- 
ments for the safe conveyance home of the precious form 
now consigned to his care. 

His friends at the Dubois house manifested the deepest 
sympathy in his affliction, and aided him in every possible 
way. In making his journey he concluded to take a boat 
conveyance to Chatham, and a trading vessel thence to his 
native city. 

The missionary, who since the early spring • had been 
laboring up and down the rivers St. John and Miraraichi, 
now concluded to return to his family for the coming win- 
ter. Such had been his intention and his promise to 
Mrs. Norton, when he left home. He was induced to go 
at this particular time partly by the hope of rendering 
some service to Mr. Lansdowne during his journey, and 
partly in order to see Mrs. Lansdowne and impart to 
her the particulars of her brother’s residence and illness 
at Miramichi. A scheme of mercy on the part of the good 


man. 


17 *. 


194 


MIRAMICm. 


On the return of Mr. Dubois to his house, he found a 
package of letters, which, in the confusion and anxiety of 
the pi'evious day, had remained unopened. There was 
one from the Count de Rossillon, announcing the. death 
of the Countess. He wrote as if deeply depressed in 
mind, Speaking of the infirmities of age weighing heavily 
upon him, and of his loneliness, and imploring Mr. Dubois 
to come, make his abode at the chateau and take charge 
of the estate, which, at his death, he added, would pass 
into the possession of Mrs. Dubois and Adele. 

Mrs. Dubois’s heart beat with delight and her eyes swam 
with tears of pleasure, at the prospect of Once more return- 
ing to her beloved Picardy. Yet her joy was severely 
chastened by the loss of the Countess, whom she had fondly 
loved. 

Adele felt a satisfaction in the anticipation of being 
restored to the dignities of Possillon, which she was too 
proud to manifest. 

]Mr. Dubois alone hesitated in entertaining the idea of a 
return. His innate love of independence, together with a 
remembrance of the early antipathy the Count had shown 
to the marriage with his niece, made the thought repellant 
to him. A calmer consideration, however, changed his 
view of the case. He recollected that the Count had at 
last consented to his union with Mrs. Dubois, and reflected 
that the infirmities and loneliness of the Count laid on 
them obligations they should not neglect. He found, 
also, that his own love of home and country, now that it 
could at last with propriety be gratified, welled up and 
overflowed like a newly sprung fijuntain. 


MIRAMICHI. 


lt?5 

The tornado had spent itself, the fire had rushed on to * 
the ocean, the atmosphere had became comparatively clear 
and the weather cool and bracins*. 

O ^ 

On the evening before the departure of Mr. Norton and 
Mr. Lansdowne, the family met, as on many previous 
occasions, in the Madonna room. In itself, the apartment 
was as cheerful and attractive as ever, but each one present 
felt a sense of vacancy, a shrinking of the heart. The 
sunny changeful glow of one bright face was no longer 
there, and the shadows of approaching separation cast a 
gloom over the scene. 

These people, so strangely thrown together in this wild, 
obscure region of Miramichi, drawn hither by such differ- 
ing objects of pursuit, bound by such various ties in life, 
occupying such divergent positions in the social scale, had 
grown by contact and sympathy into a warm friendship 
toward each other. Their daily Intercourse was now to 
be broken up, the moment of adieu drew nigh, and the 
prospect of future meeting was, to say the least, precarious. 
Was it strange that some sharp pangs of regret filled their 
hearts ? 

INIr. Lansdowne, who had up to this time been wholly 
occupied with his preparations for departure, was sitting, 
in an attitude betokening weariness and despondency, 
leaning his arms upon a table, shading 'his face with his 
hand. A few days of grief and anxiety had greatly 
changed him. He looked pale and languid, but Adele 
thought, as she occasionally glanced at him from the sofa 
opposite, that she had never seen his countenance so clothed 
with spiritual beauty. 


196 


MIRAMICHI. 


Mr. Dubois, who had not yet spoken to his friends of 
his intention to remove to France, now broke the heavy 
silence, by announcing his purpose to leave, in the course 
of a week, and return with his family to Picardy. 

Mr. Lansdowne started suddenly and uttered a slight 
exclamation. Adele looked at him involuntarily. He 
was gazing at her intently. The strange light again 
glowed in his eyes. Her own fell slowly. She could 
not keep her lids lifted beneath his gaze. 

After the plans of Mr. Dubois had been discussed, 
mutual inquiries and communications respecting future 
prospects were made, until the evening hours were gone. 

“If my life Is spared, I shall come here and spend another 
season, as I have spent the one just closing,” said Mr. 
Norton. 

Thus they parted for the night. 

In the morning there was time for nothing, but a few 
hasty words. 

Adele’s face was very pale. Mr. Lansdowne, looking 
as if he had not slept for many hours, took her hand, bent 
over it silently for a moment, then walked slowly to the 
boat without turning his head. 

During days and weeks of tranquil pleasure In each other’s 
companionship, these two young beings had unconsciously 
become lovers. No sooner had they awakened to a knowl- 
edge of this fact, than a great danger and an unlooked for 
sorrow, while deepening the currcnf of their existence, had 
also deepened their affection. Was that formal, restrained 
adieu to be the end of all this ? 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


CHATEAU DE EOSSILLON. 

In the year 1828, three years after the 'occurrences 
related in the last chiipter, Adele Dubois, grown into a 
superb beauty, stood near the Aphrodite fountain, in front 
of the chateau de Rossillon, feeding from her hand a beau- 
tiful white fawn. It was a warm, sunny afternoon in June. 
Majestic trees shaded the green lawn, and the dark brown 
hue of the old chateau formed a fitting background for the 
charming tableau. Adele was enveloped in a cloud of white 
gauzy drapery, a black velvet girdle encircling her waist, 
fastened by a clasp of gold and pearls. Her hair was laid 
in smooth bands over her brow, then drawn into one mass 
of heavy braids upon the back of the head, and secured by 
a golden an'ow shot through it. 

One who by chance had seen Adele in the wilds of Mira- 
michi, at the age of sixteen, would at once recognize the 
lady feeding the fawn as the same. At a second glance, 
the hair would be seen to have gro.wn a shade darker and 
a gleam more shining, the large sloe-colored eyes more 
thoughtful and dreamy, the complexion of a more trans- 
17- 


198 


MIRAinCHI. 


parent whiteness, and the figure to have ripened into a 
fuller and richer symmetry. 

. Nothing could surpass the exquisite moulding and fair- 
ness of the arm extended alternately to feed and caress 
the pet animal before her. No wonder the little creature 
looked up at her with its soft, almost human eyes, and 
gazed in her face, as if half bewildered by her beauty. 

With a proud and stately grace, she moved over the 
sward, up the marble steps and passed through. the great 
saloon of the chateau. Was there not a slight air of indif- 
ference and ennui in her face and movements ? Possibly. 
It has been noticed that people who are loved, petted, and 
admired, who have plenty of gold and jewels, who sit at 
feasts made for princes, and have the grand shine of splen- 
dor always gleaming round them, are more likely to carry 
that weary aspect, than others. Queens even do not look 
pleased and happy more than half the time. The fact 
was, that Adele of Miramichl, having spent much time in 
Paris, during the last three years, where she had been 
greatly admired, now that the novelty w^as over, had 
become tired of playing a part in the pageantry of courtly 
life and longed for something more substantial. 

As she crossed the saloon, a page informed her that 
Mrs. Dubois wished her presence in the library. She Im- 
mediately obeyed the summons. 

This apartment, one of the pleasantest in the chateau, 
was a favorite with the Count ; and as age and infirmity 
crept upon him, he grew more and more attached to it, 
and was accustomed to spend tliere the greater part of his 


MIUAMICni. 


199 


time, amused and soothed by the attentions of Mrs. Dubois 
and Adele. It was a lofty, but not very large apartment, 
the. walls nearly covered with bookcases of oak, carved in 
quaint old patterns and filled with choice books in various 
languages. Several finely executed statues were placed in 
niches, and one large picture, by Rubens, gathered a stream 
of sunshine upon its gorgeous canvas. 

The Count was sitting, buried in the purple cushions of 
an easy-chair, fast asleep, and as Adele entered the room, 
her mother held up her finger, warningly. 

“ Ma cJiere, ” said Mrs. Dubois, in a low tone, “ here is 
». packet of letters for you, from Paris.” 

Adele took them from her mother’s hand, indifferently. 
She read and crushed together a note bearing the impres- 
sion of a coat of arms. 

“ Count D’Orsay and sister wish to come here next 
week, ” she said, with a half sigh. 

“ jE//, bicn! ma chere^ they are agreeable people. I 
shall be glad to see them.” 

“ Yes,” replied Adele, Gabrielle is very lovely. Never- 
'theless, I regret they are coming.” 

“ Do you know, Adele, how highly your father esteems 
the young Count ? ” 

“ Yes, mamma, and that is one reason why I do not 
wish him to come now to Rossillon. You know he loves 
me, and my father approves. I can never marry him. ' But 
I esteem and respect him so much, that it will give me 
infinite pain to say nay.” 

Mrs. Dubois looked at Adele very tenderly, yet gravely, 


200 


MIKA3IICHI. 


and said, “ Ma fille, do not throw away a true, devoted 
affection, for the sake of a phantom one. I fear that, while 
you are dreaming and waiting, happiness will slip out of 
your path.” 

“Dreaming and waiting,” repeated Adele, a slight red 
color kindling on her cheek, ami dreaming and waiting ? ” 

“ It seems to me you are, ma chere ; I fear it will at last 
spoil your peace. I do not see how the Count D’Orsay 
can fail to win your heart. Do not decide hastily, Adele.” 

“ I have considered the affair a long time already. I 
have looked into my heart and find nothing there, for 
Count D’Orsay, but simple respect, esteem, and friendship. 
It would be a wrong to him, should I consent to marry 
him, without a warmer, deeper sentiment. It is of no use 
thinking about it longer. The subject must be closed. I 
know I shall not change, and his affection is too true and 
pure to be tampered with. I shall tell him all frankly 
next week.” 

“ Eh^ &<c7i.'”8aid Mrs.-Dubois, with a sigh, and returned 
to her letters. 

Adele,- who felt quite unhappy to disappoint her mother’s 
hopes in the case, looked thoughtful. They were both 
silent for several minutes. 

“Here is^ a letter fi’om the good missionary,” suddenly 
whispered Mrs. Dubois, holding up to her daughter several 
sheets of large paper, well covered. “ See what a nice 
long one. Now we shall hear the news from our old home.” 

She began to read the missive in a low tone, looking oc- 
casionally to see if her voice disturbed the sleeper, and 


JIIRAJIICHI. 


201 


Adele, whose countenance had instantly brightened upon 
the mention of the letter, drew her seat nearer to her 
mother and listened intently. 

Miramichi River, April, 1828. 

Dear Friends — 

I am again on the memorable spot. You 
can scarcely imagine my interest in retracing the scene of 
my brief mission here, in the summer and autumn of 1825 , 
or the deep emotion with which I revisit your former res- 
idence, the house under whose roof you so kindly shel- 
tered and entertained one, then exiled, like yourselves, 
from home. I shall ever rejoice that Providence threw me 
into your society, and bestowed upon me the precious gift 
of your friendship. 

Three years have passed since those eventful weeks we 
spent together, on the banks of this beautiful river, and 
you will be interested to know what changes have taken 
place here during that time. 

Traces are still distinctly visible of the awful fire, but 
Time, tlfe great healer of wounds, and Nature, who is ever 
striving to cover up the desolations of earth, are both at 
work, silently but diligently overlaying the hideous black 
disfigurement with greenness and beauty. The Miramichi 
and Its picturesque precincts are now more alive than ever, 
with a hardy and active population. New villages are 
springing up on the banks of the river, and business, espec- 
ially in the branches of lumbering and fishing, is greatly 
increasing. There is also a marvellous change in the moral 


202 


MIEAMICHI. 


asi^ect of the country. It is ascribed in a great degree to 
the deep impression made upon the minds of the people by 
the conflagration, and doubtless this is the fact. It must 
be that God had a retributory end in view in that great 
event. It was a judgment upon the community for its 
exceeding wickedness. Nothing short of a grand, wide- 
spread illumination like that, could have penetrated the 
gross darkness that hung over the land. 

The way has been thus prepared for the reception of the 
truth ; and whereas formerly the people, if they came at 
all to hear the preaching of God’s word, were only drawn 
by motives of vain curiosity, or the desire of novelty, they 
now come in great numbers and with a sincere desire, as I 
believe, to be instructed in the way of salvation. Last 
year, I came to this region early in the spring and labored 
until late in the autumn, preaching up and down the river, 
from house to house and from grove to grove, and found 
the people, almost everywhere, ready to hear. Many 
were baptized in the flowing waters of the Miramlchl, made 
a profession of their faith in Christ, and have since exhib- 
ited in their daily lives, good and in some cases shining 
evidence of their sincerity. 

You may perhaps be interested to. know that yesterday, 
which was the Sabbath, I discoursed, as in days gone by, 
in MIcah’s Grove. The people came in from a great 
distance around, and it was estimated that there were not 
less than eight hundred present. 

My soul was completely filled with a sense of God’s 
unbounded love to the human family, and my heart was 


MIRA]MICHI. 


203 


enlarged to speak of the wonderful things belonging to His 
goodness and mercy towards us, as a race. I was like a 
bottle filled with new wine, my heart overflowing with the 
remembrance of God’s love. Conviction was carried in 
a most signal manner to the souls of many present. , The 
whole assembly seemed for a time to be overshadowed by 
the immediate Divine presence. 

It is remarkq,ble, that though the people do at the 
present time seem to be under profound religious Im- 
pressions, yet there are scarcely any traces of the delusion 
and wildfire usually accompanying such seasons, among a 
somewhat uncultivated and undisciplined population. That 
great fire sobered them, perhaps. 

But, my dear friends, I know you are impatient to hear 
some details respecting the state of affairs at the “ Dubois 
Settlement,” so called from the grateful attachment felt by 
the inhabitants for a distinguished family once residing 
there. The new people who have established themselves 
here of late, are acquainted with the family just alluded 
to, of course only by tradition, but so deep has been the 
impression made upon the minds of the new comers, by 
Mrs. McNab, Micah Mummychog, and others, of the 
worth, benevolence, power, and present grandeur of said 
family, that these persons are more than willing, they feel 
honored in retaining the name of Dubois In this parish. 
The above is written, to elucidate to your minds the fact, 
obvious enough here, that you are not forgotten. 

!^ow, you will wish to hear what has befallen some of 
the queer notabilities of the Settlement. By courtesy, I 


204 


SIIRAailCHI. 


begin with Mrs. McNab. You will remember her, as the’ 
general oracle and adviser of a certain portion of the 
female population in the neighborhood, and as greatly 
opposed to some of the “ doctreenes,” as she called my 
instructions to the people. Well, she remains in her 
entireness and individuality, her costume as grotesque and 
her speech as Scotch as ever. 

You will be surprised, however, to learn that she has a 
far more favorable opinion of your humble servant than 
formerly. I have had some difficulty in accounting for 
this change in her disposition. It seems, however, that she 
had early taken a prejudice against Yankees, and had got an 
idea, in the beginning, that I had some wily and sinister in- 
tentions toward the people, connected with my labors here. 
No developments of that kind having been made, she be- 
gan to look more complacently upon my efforts, and she 
thinks now that the way in which I have endeavored to 
lead the community, is not so bad after all. 

“ The warst thing I had agen ye, was this,” she said to 
me not long since. “ My meenister o’ the Kirk at Dum- 
fries used to preach that a pusson, might repent o’ his sins, 
an’ pray and pray a’ his life lang, but wad nae ken, in this 
w'arld, whether or nae he was to be saved. Whereas, yc 
ken ye told the people that ef they repented o’ their sins 
and believed in Christ and gave the evidence o’ gude warks 
they might settle right doon, and ken they ’d be saved, 
anyhow. I ca’ that a peskalent doctreen, an a loose ane 
to promoolgate. Though I must confess, ye hae na dune 
the meeschief I luked for.” 


MIEAMICHI. 


205 


I did not think it best to go into a discussion of our the- 
ological differences, lest it should stir up the waters of 
strife, and therefore waived the subject. 

Mrs. McNab occupies two comfortable rooms at Mrs. 
Campbell’s house, from whence she issues forth, whenever 
occasion calls, to perform the duties of nurse, counsellor, 
and supervisor-general of the domestic affairs of the com- 
munity. The tea-drinkings in her parlor seem to be occa- 
sions of great social enjoyment to the fortunate neighbors 
invited. After the regular gossip of the day has been 
discussed, she entertains her company with the same old 
stories of her former life in Scotland, among its grand 
families, and to these she has added, for the benefit of 
those who have more recently come into the Settlement, 
accounts of the “ Doobyce” family, characterizing its mem- 
bers by remarking, that “ Mr. Doobyce was a braw, 
princely mon, his wife a sweet, fair spoken leddy, an’ 
Miss Ady was a born queen, ef there ever was ane. 
She had her ane way wi’ everybody, an’ e’en I mysel’ 
hae gien up to her, whiles.” 

Micah Mummychog, alias Jones, Miss Adele’s special 
devotee, never a bad-hearted person, has now become one 
of the influential men of the neighborhood, and sustains here 
every good word and work. About a year after the great 
fire, he had a long and dangerous illness, brought on by 
great exposure to cold while lumbering in the woods. 

Mrs. McNab voluntarily went to his house and took care 
of him most assiduously, for many weeks, until his recov- 
ery. Micah said, that “ it looked remarkable kind in the 
18 


206 


MIRAJIICHI. 


old soul to come of her own accord and take keer of him, 
when he ’d allers plagued her so unmascifully.” 

He felt very grateful to her and paid her handsomely for 
her services. Nevertheless, he teases her yet oecasionally 
and says “ he dont know neow, which skeered him most, 
the great fire, or cornin’ to his senses one night when he 
was sick, and seein’ Aunt McNab with her head wropped 
up in its cotton night gear.” 

Subsequent to Micah’s recovery, he went to the Kenne- 
bec River and visited his friends. After his return, he 
commenced trading, and is now doing quite an extensive 
business. He has entirely broken off from his old habits 
of swearing and gambling, and discountenances them 
among the people. He attends religious worship constantly, 
and sets a worthy example in keeping the Sabbath day. 

He is also getting his ideas up on the subject of educa- 
tion. Not long since, he told me it was his opinion that 
“ there warn’t half school lamin’ enuf among the people, 
and there ’d oughter to be longer schools. There ’s Jinny 
Campbell, there, a bright leetle imp as ever was, and ef 
she’d had a chance would a taken to her books, like a 
chicken to a dough dish. And there ’s others, most as smart 
as she is, all reound, that need schoolin’. I feel the want 
of it myself, neow its tew late to git it.” 

A few days ago, Micah told me he expected to build a 
new house for himself soon. 

“Ah! Micah,” said I, “ have you got tired of that 
comfortable old house of yours, where we have had so 
many nice suppers and cosey times together ? ” 


MIRAMICHI. 


207 


“ Well, no, Captin’; I hain’t, and I’m afeerd I shall 
never like another place as I dew that. But ye see, ef a 
feller is a goin’ to git merried, he ’s got to stir reound and 
dew what suits other folks as well as hisself.” 

“ Married I Micah,” I said, in complete astonishment, 
‘ ‘ are you going to be married ? ” 

“ That’s jest the way I expected yeou’d look,” said he, 
“ when I told ye abeout it, because ye knew I used to 
talk agin it, like fury. But ye see, Captin’ ; I aint just as 
I used to be, abeout some things. I ’ll tell ye heow it 
came reound, any heow, so as to sahtisfy ye I ain’t crazy. 
Well, when I was a beginnin’ to git better o’ that terable 
sickness, the fust and only one I ever had in my life. Miss 
Campbell, she used to send Jinny up, with bits o’ briled 
chicken, nice broth and sech, to kinder tempt my appetite 
like. The little critter used to bring ’em in and be so 
pitiful to me and say, do Micah try to eat this, so that you 
may git well ; and she seemed so pooty, sincere and nateral 
like in all her ways, that I took to her mightily, specially 
as I had n’t Mss Adele to look arter and chore reound for, 
any more. Once or twice, when she came to bring suthin,’ 
Ant McNab kinder advised her to do this and that, and 
the way the leetle critter spunked up and had her own 
way, made me think o’ Miss Adele and pleased me some, 
I tell ye. 

“ Well, arter I got well, she seemed to be just as chip- 
per and pleasant as ever, and was allers glad when I went 
to the heouse, and so it went on (I won’t bother abeout 
the rest on’t) till six months ago. As I was a walkin’ 


208 


aiiKAJiicm. 


hum from a meetin’ at the Grove with her, she sed, ‘ what 
a pooty Grove that is, of yours, Micah ; ’ Witheout a 
considerin’ a half a minit, I sed, right away, ‘ Jinny, I’d 
giveyeou that Grove and all I have beside, upon one condi- 
tion.’ I looked at her, arterl’dsed it, as sheered as I 
could be, fur fear she ’d fly right at me, fur sayin’ sech a 
thing. But she did n’t. She only colored up awfully and 
sed, in a fluttered kinder way, ‘ what condition, Micah?’ 
‘ Pon condition that you ’d merry me. Jinny.’ You may 
believe that arter I sed that, my heart stood still, better ’n 
a minit. She didn’t say a word at fust, seemed ruther 
took by surprise, and then, all of a sudding, she turned her 
head and looked up inter my face as sarcy as ye ever see 
anything, and says. she, ‘ Do yeou think I’d ever merry a 
man with sech a horrid name as Mummychog? ’ ‘ Is that 

all the objection you hev. Jinny?’ ses I. Ses she, ‘ ’T is 
the greatest, I know of.’ Then ses I, * There ain’t no 
diffikilty, for my name aint INIummychog, and never was. 
When I came deown to this kentry, I was a wild, reckless 
kind of a critter, and-I thought I’d take some outlandish 
name, jest for the joke on it. I took Mummychog, and 
they allers called me so. But my real name is Jones.’ 
•Well, Mr. Jones,’ ses she, lookin’ sarcier than ever, 

‘ I shall expect yeou to hev a sign painted with your real 
name on it and put up on your store, and yeou must build 
a new heouse before I merry yeou.’ That sobered me 
deown a leetle. I sed, ‘ But Jinny, I don’t want ye to 
merry me, unless ye like me. I ’ll build a heouse and gin 
it tew ye, ef that ’s what ye want. But ye need n’t merry 


MIJlAMlCIir. 


209 


me unless ye like me — neow remember.’ She looked 
at me, jest as soon as I scd that, and caught up my big 
hand inter her little one, and ses she, ‘ O law, Micah, I ’d 
merry ye ef yer name was Mummychog, and ye need n’t 
build a heouse, nor nothin’. I ken go right to the old 
place jest as well. I’d merry ye ef ye hadn’t a cent, for 
I like ye better ’n anybody else in the world, Micah.’ 
And then she began to cry, and I hushed her up. And so, 
neow it ’s all settled.” 

“ "Well Micah,” said I, after hearing this account of his 
courtship of Jenny Campbell, “ I congratulate you on your 
choice ; Jenny is a good girl and a pretty one. But is n’t 
she rather young ? ” 

“ Well, yis. I thought yeou ’d be speakin’ t)’ that. 
I ’m forty year old and she ’s abeout eighteen, or so. Con- 
sid’able difference in eour ages. I told her abeout that 
t’other day, and she sed, well she did n’t see but I ’pearcd 
abeout as young as she did. She didn ’t see much difference. 
So ef she’s sahtisfied, I’d oughtpr be. But Captin,’ I ’ll 
tell ye, she ’s a curus leetle critter as ever ye ' see. 
She has spells of playin’ off all kinds o’ tricks on me and 
hectorin ’ me every way she ken, but the minit she sees 
me look sober, as ef I felt any way bad, she leaves right 
off, and comes up and kisses me, and ses she didn’t mean 
anything by it, and is as good as a kitten.” 

Alas ! poor Micah ! You see. Miss Adele, he is in the 
meshes, and there we must leave him for the present. I 
have taken pains to give you the above in his own lan- 
18 «» 


210 


MIRAMICm. 


guage, as It is so much more graphic than any I could 
employ. 

My letter of MIramichl gossip has swollen, unconsciously, 
to an enormous size, and I fear I am getting tedious. Be 
patient a few minutes longer, dear friends, while I tell you 
of Mr. John Lansdowne. 

I happened in the city of P — last winter, on business, 
and just before leaving town I went to call on Mr, Lans- 
downe. Aunt Esther, Mr. John ’s nurse, an aged negro 
woman who has been a member of the household many 
years, answered my ring at the door. Finding that none 
of the family were at home, I was turning to leave when 
Aunt Esther begged me to come In, saying she reckoned they 
would soon be back, as they had already been several hours 
absent, adding, good soul, that “they’d all be dreffully 
disapinted not to see me.” 

I knew that several months prior to this, Mr. Lans- 
downe had been admitted to the practice of law and had 
become junior partner In business, to the distinguished Mr. 
Eldon of P. And I now gathered from Aunt Esther, 
that the Supreme Court was in session, and that a great 
criminal case was being tried before the jury. Mr. Eldon 
had been taken ill, just before the trial came on, and 
had urged INIr. 'Lansdowne to take his place in Court, 
saying, he could argue the case as well as himself. Mr. 
John, as Aunt Esther Informed me, did It with great reluc- 
tance, though she did n’t see why. He always does 
everything he sets out to do, ’markable nice. But Massa 
and Missus felt kind’ of anxious, and theyv’e gone into 


Mip^unciii. 


211 


Court, with other gemmen and ladles, to hear how ’t goes. 
I feel no concern about it. I know he ’ll make a splen’id 
talk, anyhow, cos lie always does.” 

After waiting half an hour, I was obliged to leave 
messages of regret with Aunt Esther and hasten home. 

I observed in “ The Eastern Gazette ” of the 
following week, a notice of Mr. Lansdowne’s plea before 
the jury, in the great case of “ The Commonwealth vs- 
Jenkins,” in which he was eulogized in the highest terms. 
He was said to have displayed “ great acumen, exten- 
sive legal acquirements, and magnificent powers of ora- 
tory.” So, Aunt Esther’s confidence, about the “ splen’id 
talk,” was not without a reasonable basis. 

I was highly gratified, myself, in reading the flattering 
paragraphs. You know we all greatly admired the young 
gentleman at Miramichi. He has a brilliant earthly 
future before him, should his life and faculties be spared. 

Micah was much charmed with the intelligence I brought 
him of his old favorite. 

“ I ain ’t a mite surprised at what you v’e sed abeout the 
young man. Ever sence I took that trip inter the woods 
with him, I know’d he’d the genooine ring o’ trew metal 
tew him. When he gits to be President o’ the United 
States, I shall sell eout here and go hum to the Kennebec.” 

Please let me hear from you soon, my dear friends. It 
seems long since 1 have had tidings from you. 

With an abiding gratitude for past kindness, shown by 
you to^ a weary wanderer from home, and with the 
warmest respect and friendship, I remain as ever. 

Yours truly, 

Samuel J. Norton. 


212 


MIl’iAMICIII. 


Mrs. Dubois not having but one pair of eyes, and those 
being fully occupied with the contents of the above letter, 
and the Count de Rosslllon remaining asleep during the en- 
tire reading, of course It could not be expected that they 
observed the changes that took place on Adele’s counte- 
nance. But an author, as is well known, has ways and 
means of observation not common to others, and here it 
may be remarked, that that young lady’s face, had exhib- 
ited, during the last fifteen minutes, or more, quite a variety 
of emotions. It had at first, been thoughtful and Interest- 
ed, then lighted with smiles, then radiant with enjoyment 
of the good missionary’s sketches of Mrs. McNab and 
Micah. But the moment her mother read the name of 
John Lansdowne, her face was sufiused with a deep crim- 
son, and she listened almost breathlessly, and with glisten- 
ing eyes, to the close. 

“ Oh ! the good noble man !” said Mrs. Dubois, as she 
folded up the sheets. “ It will please your father to read 
this, where is he, Adele?” 

“He rode away with Pierre, not long ago. Please let 
me take the letter. I must' read it again,” said Adele, 
having conquered her emotion, without her mother perceiv- 
ing it. 

She took it away to her own boudoir, and as she read 
the pages, the flowing tears fell fast. Why should she 
weep over such a cheerful letter as that ? Why ? 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE LAST SLEEP. 

Ad13le had long since discovered that the events of 
greatest interest in her life had transpired before she entered 
the walls of Rossillon, or mingled in the festivities of the 
Court at Paris. 

The scenes that occurred at Miramichi, during Mr. Lans- 
downe’s accidental residence there, were fraught with a 
power over her heart, continually deepening with the flight 
of time. Those golden days, when their lives flowed side 
by side, had been filled with the strange, sweet agitations, 
the aerial dreams, the bewitching glamour, the Intoxicating 
happiness of a first and youthful love. Those days were im- 
printed yet more deeply in her memory by a consciousness 
that there was somewhat with which to reproach herself, 
connected with them. Just when she had reaehed the top 
of bliss, her pride had sprung up, and like a dark storm- 
cloud, had shadowed the scene. She could not forget that 
cold, sad parting from her lover. 

And now, though the ocean rolled between them, and 
the spheres in which each moved were so widely separated 
and the years had come and gone, she was yet calculating 


214 


MIEAIknCHl. 


and balancing the probabilities, that they might meet again 
and the wrong of the past be cancelled. 

Mr. Lansdowne had been plodding among musty law 
books and threading legal intricacies, with occasional in- 
terruptions, caused by fits of impatience and disgust at the 
detail and tedium of study, until he had at length fought 
his way through and placed himself in the front rank of 
his profession. His brilliant achievement in the famous 
Jenkins case, in the outset of his career, had at once won 
for him a position at the bar which most young men have 
to toil years to obtain. His family was wealthy and influ- 
ential. It was not strange that with these advantages, 
united to the possession of remarkable personal beauty, he 
should be the centre of a numerous group of friends and 
admirers. He was the object of pride among the 
older barristers and gentlemen of the bench, the cynosure 
of the young men, and the one among a thousand whom 
elegant mammas and smiling maidens wooed with their 
selectest influences. 

Yet one great element of earthly happiness was wanting 
to his life. He could not forget the enchantment of those 
days spent in the far-off wilds of Miramichi. He turned 
continua% to those scenes, as the moat prominent of his 
existence. There he had stepped from boyhood into man- 
hood. There he had seen life in new and before untried 
forms. He had there witnessed a wonderful display of 
God’s power through the terrible agency of the all-devour- 
ing flame, and there, for the first time, he had confronted 
death and sorrow. There, he had loved once and as he 


MIRAMICHI. 


215 


believed, forever. He recalled Adele, as she first appeared 
before him, — an unexpected vision of beauty, in all her 
careless grace and sweet, confiding frankness ; in her mo- 
ments of stately pride, when she chilled him from her side 
and kept him afar off ; and in her moments of affectionate 
kindness, and generous enthusiasm. In short, in all her 
changeful moods she was daily flitting before him and he 
confessed to himself, that he had never met a being so rich 
In nature and varied in powers,, so noble in Impulse and 
purpose, so peerlessly beautiful in person. 

Thus he lived on^from day to day, remembering and 
yearning and dreaming, — the ocean yawning between him 
and his love. Concealed in the depths of his soul, there 
was, however, a hope fondly cherished, and a purpose half 
formed. 

A few weeks after the reception of Mr. Norton’s letter, 
the Count de Rossillon died. Sitting, as usual, in his 
great purple-cushioned arm-chair, taking his afternoon nap, 
he expired so gently that Mrs. Dubois, who was reading 
by the window, did not know, or even suspect, when the 
parting between spirit and body occurred. Kindly, genial, 
and peaceful had been his last years, and his life went out 
calmly as the light of day goes out amid the mellow tints 
of a pleasant autumn sunset. 

When Mrs. Dubois went to arouse him from what seemed 
an unusually long slumber, she found a volume of Fenelon 
spread open upon his knee, and turning it, her eye ran 
over passages full of lofty and devout aspiration. These, 
probably expressed the latest thoughts and desires of the 


216 


JIIKAMICHI. 


good chevalier, for as she looked from the pages to his 
face, turned upward toward the ceiling, a smile of assent 
and satisfaction Avas still lingering there, although his 
breath had departed and his pulse was still. 

Mrs. Dubois stooped to kiss the forehead of her uncle, 
but started back with a sudden thrill of fear. She gazed 
searchingly at him for a moment, and then she knew that 
Death, the conqueror, stood there with her, looking upon 
his completed work. 

After the first shock of surprise was over, she remained 
gazing upon the spectacle in perfect silence. A truly 
devout Catholic, in her grief she leaned with all a 
woman’s trust and confidingness upon the love and power 
of Christ, and something of the divine calmness which 
we associate with the character of the mother of our Lord, 
and which has been so wonderfully depicted to the eye by 
some of the older painters, pervaded her spirit. 

As she thus stood, spellbound, entranced, her eyes 
fixed upon the noble features irradiated with a smile of 
content an^peace, the long silvery locks parted away from 
the forehead and flowing around the head, like a halo, she 
thought it the countenance of a saint, and her poetic fancy 
created at once a vision of the Saviour, with an aspeet 
grand, glorious, yet gracious and benign, placing with 
His right hand a golden jewelled crown upon her uncle’s 
head. A cloud swept up over the gorgeous earthliness of 
the great Rubens picture, and from out its’ folds shone 
sweet and smiling angel faces, looking down upon the 
scene. 


MIRAMICHI, 


217 


Mrs. Dubois never knew how long she remained thus ab- 
sorbed. She was first aroused by hearing a voice saying, 
in tones of fervor, “ How blessed it is to die!” And 
Adele, who had entered the room a little time before, and 
had uttered these words, stepped forward and imprinted a 
kiss upon the pale uplifted brow of the sleeper. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


POMPEII. 

About this period, Mrs. Lansdowne, whose health had 
been declining for nearly a year, was urgently advised by 
her physician to seek a milder climate. John immediately 
offered himself as her compagnon de voyage, and manifested 
great alacrity in the preparations for their departure for 
Italy. 

After a favorable sea passage, they landed at Civita 
Vecchia, and, with brief delays at Rome and Naples, went 
to Sorrento, intending to remain there several months. 

This place combines the most striking peculiarities of 
Italian sc^ery. It stands on a wide and beautiful plain, 
shut in by the mountains and the sea. The fertile soil 
produces oranges, lemons, grapes, and figs of the richest 
quality and in great abundance. The coast line, a wall of 
volcanic rock, is broken into varied forms, by the constant 
action of the waters. Here, they spent day after day, ram- 
bling about the old town, making excursions into the neigh- 
boring mountains, or crossing the bay to different points 
of interest. They delighted particularly In sailing under 
the shadow of the cliffs, watching the varying colors, blue, 
purple, and green, presented by the glassy surface, peering 


MIRAMICIII. 


219 


into the archeil caverns, worn into the rock by the waves, 
and looking upward at the gay profusion of wild flowers, 
which, growing in every crevice, adorned its face with 
beauty. From the balcony of the house they occupied, 
they looked upon gardens, invisible from the street, so 
closely were they walled in from the view of the passer by, 
and beheld orange and lemon trees, with rounded tops of 
dark green foliage, golden fruit, and snowy blossoms. The 
soft air permitted them to sit during the evenings and 
listen to the whisper of the sea on the beach, to watch the 
sails of the fishing vessels gleaming in the moonlight, and 
gaze at the dark form of Vesuvius, with his lighted torch, 
brooding at a distance, over the scene. 

A month had thus passed away. A marked improve- 
ment had taken place in Mrs. Lansdo\Yne’s health, and 
John proposed that they should *go to Naples and make an 
excursion thence to Pompeii. 

One morning, they drove out from the swarming city 
toward those famous ruins, revealing to the curious so 
much of the old Roman civilization. After a drive of 
twelve miles past fields of lava and ashes, the accumula- 
tions from recent irruptions of Vesuvius, they arrived at 
the street of tombs, a fitting entrance to the desolated 
city. Here, the beautifully sculptured monuments, me- 
morials of a departed generation, awoke in their hearts a 
pcfcullar interest. Through these they entered at once 
into the inner life of joys and sorrows of an extinct race. 

“ How terrible death must have been to these people, 
whose ideas of the future world were so vague and unsatis- 


220 


MIRAMICIII. 


fying, and who had really no knowledge of immortality I ” 
said Mrs. Lansdowne. 

“Yes,” replied John. “And with nothing brighter 
or more glorious to look forward to in the beyond, how 
reluctant they must have felt to leave these glowing skies, 
this delicious air, these scenes of beauty and art, for the 
darkness of the grave. I fancy it must have been harder 
for them than if they had been surrounded with the sombre 
tints, the chilling atmosphere, and the more subdued forms 
of life in our own clime.” 

Leaving the cemetery, they passed on through the 
narrow streets, paved with blocks of lava, on which were 
the traces of carriage wheels worn into the material more 
than eighteen hundred years ago. They went into the 
Pompeian houses, walked over the marble mosaic floors, 
looked at the paintings on the walls, examined the bronzes, 
the statues, the domestic utensils, the shop of the oil mer- 
chant, with his name on it still legible, until, in imagina- 
tion, they began to people the solitude, — bringing back 
the gay, luxurious, beauty-loving Pompeians again to live 
and revel in their former haunts. 

At length, quite exhausted, Mrs. Lansdowne sank down 
on a seat in one of the porticoes, and John, placing himself 
by her side, tempted her to partake of a lunch he had 
provided for the occasion. 

Soon, the pensive influences of the scene stole over them, 
and they sat for some time in perfect silence. 

jNIrs. Lansdowne first interrupted it, by exclaiming, 
“ John, what are you thinking of ?” 


MIRAMICHI. 


221 


‘ ‘ Thinking of ! why I was thinking just then how those 
Pompeians used to sit in these porticoes and talk of the deeds 
of Caesar and of the eloquence of Cicero, while those 
renowned men were yet living, and how they discussed 
the great combats in the amphitheatres of Kome. And 
what were you cogitating, my dear mother ? ” said he, 
smiling. 

“ Oh ! I was thinking woman’s thoughts. How slowly 
they excavate here ! I have an extreme curiosity to know 
what there is, yet uncovered to the light of day, beyond 
that dead wall of ashes.” 

“ If I were a magician, I would apply to your eyes 
some unguent, which should unveil what is there con- 
cealed,” said John, smiling. “Will you go now to the 
theatre ? ” • 

lie drew his mother’s arm within his, and they moved 
on. That portion of the city appeared as if it had been 
partially destroyed by a conflagration. 

Looking towards Vesuvius, he said, “I can easily 
imagine the sensations of those who gazed at the volcano 
on that terrible day and saw for the first time its flames 
bursting out, and throwing their horrid glare on the snow- 
capped mountains around. Fire is a tremendous element.” 

As he uttered the words, the scene of the great confla- 
crration at Miramichi rose to his view. 

D 

“ Salve ! Salve ! ” exclaimed a rich, musical voice near ‘ 
him, just at that moment. 

The word and the tone in which it was uttered, thrilled 
him, llke^n electric shock. He looked, with a bewildered 


222 


Miiiimicm. 


air, in the direction from whence the voice proceeded, and 
saw, standing before the threshold of- one of the Pompeian 
houses, a tall, elegant female figure, habited in mourning. 

Her eyes were fixed upon the word of salutation, written 
on the threshold, at the entrance. After contemplating it 
a moment, she turned her head involuntarily towards jMr. 
Lansdowne, who stood transfixed to the spot. Their eyes 
met in instant recognition. Neither moved — they w'ere 
both paralyzed with sudden emotion. 

Mrs. Lansdowne looked up in surprise. 

“ What is it, John?” 

“ It is,” said he, recovering himself, “ it is, that I am 
astonished to meet here, so unexpectedly, a friend whom 
I supposed to be in France — certainly not here.” 

He led his mother forward a few steps and presented her 
to Mademoiselle Dubois. 

M. and Mdme. Dubois, who were standing a little 
apart, examining some objects of interest, while this scene 
of recognition transpired, now joined the group and were 
presented to Mrs. Lansdowne. During the remainder of 
the day, the two families formed one party. 

They visited the ruined theatre, the Forum, the temples 
of Isis and Hercules, but the spell of Pompeii no longer 
bound the souls of John and Adele. It is true, tliey 
walked on, sometimes side by side, sometimes with other 
forms between, absorbed, entranced ; but a spirit more 
potent than any Inhabiting the walls of the old Roman city 
had touched the powers of their being and woven its sor- 
ceries around them. The living present had suddenly shut 
out the past. 


MiRAincm. 


223 


So, after three years, they had met. Such meetings 
are critical. In the lapse of time, what changes may oc- 
cur ! There is so much in life to mar the loveliest and 
noblest ! In regard to character, of course no one can stand 
still. There is either a process of deterioration going 
on, or a work of intellectual and spiritual advancement. 
IMemory and imagination glorify the absent and the dead. 
Tlie lovers had been constantly exercising, respecting each 
other, their faculty of idealization. When they parted, they 
were young, with limited experiences of life, with slight 
knowledge of their own hearts. It was a dangerous mo- 
ment when they thus met. 

But there was no disappointment. Mr. Lansdowne 
gazed upon Adele, with emotions of surprise and astonish- 
ment at the change a few years had wrouglrt in her and 
marvelled at the perfection of her beauty and manner. 

Adele, albeit she was not used to the reverential mood, 
experienced an emotion almost verging into awe,. mingled 
with her admiration of the noble form, the dignity and 
stately grace of him who had so charmed her girlish days. 

Thus the acquaintance, broken off, in that cold, re- 
strained morning adieu, on the banks of the Miramichi, was 
renewed under the sunny, joyous sky of Italy. Their 
communion with one another Was now no longer marred by 
youthful waywardness and caprice. During those long 
years of separation, they had learned so thoroughly the 
miseries attending the alienation of truly loving hearts, 
that there was no inclination on the part of either, to trifle 
now. Day by day, the hours they spent 'together be- 
came sweeter, dearer, more full of love’s enchantment. 


224 


MIEAMICm. 


“ Mademoiselle Dubois,” said Mr. Lansdowne, a few 
weeks after their recognition at Pompeii, “I think I did 
not quite do justice to that famous excavated city, when I 
visited it. I was so occupied with the pleasure of meeting 
old friends that I really did not examine objects with the 
attention they deserve. To-morrow I intend to revisit the 
spot and make amends for my neglect. Will you give me 
the pleasure of your company ? ” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Lansdowne, I shall be happy to go 
with you. A week spent there, could not exhaust the in- 
terest of the place.” • 

The two families were still at Naples and from that city 
Mr. Lansdowne and Adele started again to visit Pompeii. 

No evidence, as to the amount of antiquarian lore ac- 
quired on that day by our two lovers has yet transpired, 
but it is certain that, while wandering among the ruins, they 
•came before the threshold of the door, where Adele was 
standing, when first recognized by IMr. Lansdowne. 
There, he gently detained her, and explained, how that 
ancient salute of welcome, to the guest and the stranger, 
when uttered by her lips, had thrilled his heart ; how it had 
been treasured there as an omen of good for the future, 
and how the memory of it now emboldened him to speak 
the words he was about to utter. There, within sight of 
Vesuvius and with the fiery memories of Miramichl hanging 
upon the hour, he renewed the avowal of his love, first 
made in the haste and effervescence of youthful passion. 

And now, Adele did not, as then, fly from his presence. 
She simply put her hand in his, and pronounced in 
sweet and almost solemn accents, the irrevocable promise. 


Mirv^\3]iciii. 


225 


In the meantime, Mrs. Lansdowne had been cultivatino’ 
the friendship of M. and Mdme. Dubois. She was grati- 
fied to have an opportunity of thanking them in person , 
for their hospitality and kindness to her son and brother 
in Miramichi. Her profound gratitude for attentions to 
those so dear to her, would have proved a bond of suffi- 
cient strength to unite her to these new acquaintances. 
But she was attracted to them also by traits of mind and 
character unfolded in their daily intercourse. ^ 

The discovery of John’s attachment to Adele explained 
many things in his conduct, during the last few years, that 
had appeared enigmatical. With this fact made clear to 
her mind, it may well be supposed that she observed the 
young lady with keen scrutiny. At the end of a week, 
John confessed his intention to win Adele if possible for 
his wife. His mother had no objection to such an alliance, 
and only wished him success in his efforts. 

Haying spent six weeks together at Naples and Sorrento, 
the party pursued their travels leisurely, for several 
months, through Italy and Germany, until at length they 
reached France. After a visit at Paris, they located 
themselves quietly at the chateau de Rosslllon, where 
preparations were soon commenced for t]ie marriage. 

It was observed, that the lovers, supposed to be the 
parties most particularly interested, were remarkably in- 
different in regard to these aflfairs. When needed for 
consultation on important arrangements, they were re- 
ported to be oflf, riding or driving or wandering in some 
remote part of the park, and when at last, an opportunity 


226 


mRAJUCIII. 


occurred to present some point for their consideration, they 
seemed to have no particular opinions on the subject. 

With a very decided taste of her own, in matters of 
dress, not less than In other things, Adele could not be 
made to attend to the details of the trousseau, and at last - 
the two. older ladles took It Into their own hands. ^ 

In the mean time, the lovers were leading a rapturous 
life in the past, the present, the future. In the past they 
remembered the morning glories of Miramichi ; in the 
present they saw, daily, in each other’s eyes, unfathomed 
depths of love ; as to the future it shone out before them, 
resplendent with the light of an earthly Paradise. 

At last, the wedding day came, and the parting between 
Adele and her parents. It was a great sacrifice on the 
part of M. and Mdme. Dubois. But, remembering their 
own early trials, they made no' opposition to Adele’s choice. 
They sought only her happiness. 


CHAPTER XXVn. 


CONCLUSION. 

On a dark, stormy day, in the winter of 1845, at ten 
o’clock, afternoon, a tall, stout, elderly man, muffled in 
fur, rang at the door of Mr. Lansdowne. 

The house was large, of brown stone, and situated on 
H — Street, In the city of P . 

As the servant opened the door, the hall light fell upon 
a face of strongly marked features. Irradiated by an expres- 
sion of almost youthful cheerfulness. To the -Inquiry, if 
^Ir. and Mrs. Lansdowne were at home, the servant re- 
plied, that they were absent, but would return shortly. 

“Miss AdMe is in the drawing-rroom sir,” he added, 
immediately throwing open the door of that apartment, to 
its widest extent, as if to insure the entrance of Mr. Nor- 
ton, for it was no other than the good missionary of Mira- 
michi. He was still the warmly cherished and highly 
revered friend of the entire family. 

Adele, a young lady of sixteen, was sitting on a low 
seat in the drawing-room, beneath a blaze of waxen candles, 
intently occupied with a new book. She gave a start on 
being recalled so suddenly from the faney land In which she 


228 


MIRAMICHI. 


was roaming, but after a moment of bewilderment, flung 
aside her book, came quickly forward, put her arms around 
the neck of Mr. Norton, who bent down to receive them, 
and welcomed him with a cordial kiss. 

“ Every day more and more like your mother. Miss 
Adele,” said he, as, after returning her salutation, he held 
her at arm’s length and surveyed her from head to foot. 

“ Papa and mamma will be home soon,” said Adele. 
“ They went to dine at Mr. Holbrook’s. It is time for 
their return.” 

“ All right, my dear. And how are you all?” 

The young lady led him to a large, cushioned arm-chair. 

“ How did you leave mamma Norton, Jenny, and 
Fanny?” 

“ All quite well. And they sent love; ” replied the 
missionary. 

‘ ‘ How is Gray Eagle ? ” 

“ Ah ! Gray Eagle is good for many a trot round the 
parish yet.” 

“ I have not forgotten how he shot over the hills with 
me, last summer. He began his scamper, the moment I 
was fairly seated on his back. I hope he has sobered down 
a little since then,” said Adele. 

Yes, I remember. Gray Eagle knew well enough 
that the little sprite he carried, liked a scamper as well as 
himself. The animal is quite well, I thank you, and is on 
good behavior. So are your other acquaintances, Cherry, 
the cow, and Hodge, the cat.” 

<‘I am glad to hear it. I had a charming visit at 


MlRiUIICin. 


229 


Rockdale last summer. Johnny and Gabrielle are wild 
to go there. But mamma and 1, and all of us, were so 
disappointed because you would not consent to Fanny and 
Jenny coming to spend the winter with us. Mamma says 
she does not quite understand yet why you objected.” 

“ Ah ! well, my dear. I’ll make it all right with your 
mamma. The fact is, I wish to get a few rational ideas 
into the heads of those precious little ladies before they are 
launched out into city life. Just a little ballast to keep 
them from capsizing in a gale.” 

“ Mamma says they are both very much like you,” said 
Adele, archly. 

‘ ‘ True, ray dear. That makes it all the more necessary 
to look after them carefully.” 

After a few moments of chat, Adele left the room to 
give orders for hastening supper. 

During her absence, Mr. Norton, with his eyes fixed 
upon the glowing grate, fell into a fit of musing.' Look 
at him a moment, while he sits thus, occupied with the 
memories of the past. Twenty years have passed since 
he was introduced to the attention of the reader, a mission- 
ary to a remote and benighted region. He is now sixty 
years old, and very few- have passed through greater toil 
and hardships than he has endured, in asserting the claims 
of the Redeemer to the gratitude and love of the race. 
Yet his health and vigor of mind are scarcely impaired, 
and his zeal continues unabated. 

Beginning his journey early each spring and returning 
to his family late every autumn, he had spent sixteen suc- 
20 


230 


MR^oiicin. 


cessive summers in Miramichi, engaged in self-imposed 
labors. Each winter, he wrought at his anvil, and thus 
helped to maintain an honest independence. 

Four years previous, a parish having become vacant, in 
the town where he resided, it was urged upon his accept- 
ance, by the unanimous voice of the people. By his 
efforts, a great change had been wrought in the field of 
his past labors and a supply of suitable religious teachers 
having been provided there, he accepted the invitation as a 
call of Divine Providence, and had ministered to the spirit- 
ual wants of the people of Rockdale since. 

Business called him occasionally to the city of P. His 
visits there were always regarded by the Lansdownes as 
especial favors. The two families had frequently inter- 
changed visits and had grown into habits of the closest 
intimacy. 

Having been in the city several hours and dispatched 
the affairs which drew him thither, he had now come 
to look in upon his friends for the night, expecting to 
hasten away at day dawn. 

There was something in his situation this evening, thus 
housed in warmth, light, and comfort, protected from the 
darkness and the storm without, and ministered unto by a 
lovely young maiden, that reminded him of a like scene, 
that had occurred, twenty years ago. He vividly recalled 
the evening, when, after a day of toil and travel on the 
banks of the distant Miramichi, he reached the house of 
Dubois, and how while the tempest raged without he was 
cheered by the light and warmth within, and was ministered 


JiiR^ymciii. 


231 


unto by another youthful maiden, in form and feature so 
like her, who had just left him, that he could almost imag- 
ine them the same. A glance around the apartment, 
however, dispelled the momentary fancy. Its rich and 
beautiful adornments afforded a striking contrast to the 
appointments of that humble room. 

He was roused from his meditations by the ringing of 
the street bell, and in a moment Mr. and Mrs. Lansdowne 
came forward to welcome their early and long-tried friend. 

The good man, who loved them with an affection akin 
to that which he felt for his own family, had preserved a 
watchful care over their earthly and spiritual welfare. 
Sometimes he feared that their wealth and fame might 
draw away their hearts from the highest good and impair 
the simplicity of their religious faith. 

After the first cordial greetings, in accordance with his 
habit on occasions like this, he indulged in a careful scru- 
tiny of his two friends. 

Time had in no wise impaired the charms of Mrs. Lans- 
downe. Experience of life, maternal cares, and religious 
duties had added a softer light to her once proud beauty, 
and her old friend might well be pardoned a thrill of admi- 
ration as he gazed and thought within his heart, that Mrs. 
Lansdowne, robed in black velvet, Mechlin lace, and the 
diamonds of the house of Eossillon, surpassed In loveliness, 
the radiant Adele Dubois, arrayed in the aerial garments of 
girlhood. 

"When also his keen eye had wandered over the face and 
figure of John Lansdowne, it returned from its explora- 


232 


MIRAlMICin. 


tions satisfied. No liabits of excess had Impaired the 
muscular strength and vl£?or of his form. Nor had un- 
governed passion, avarice, political craft, or disappointed 
ambition drawn deep defacing lives, to mar the noble 
beauty of his countenance. 

“It is well with them still,’’ ejaculated the good man 
mentally, “ and may God bless them forever.” 


THE END, 





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